The Virtual Dead

by E. R. Mason

They came a short time later, with less caution than would have been expected. They approached as though they thought the game was already over. The first man emerged onto the road to Markman's right with his goggles pulled up over his forehead and his weapon pointed casually at the ground. It would have been an easy shot except there were the faint rustling sounds from a second hunter somewhere to the left. Markman summoned patience.

  The black-suited man on the road's edge squatted and began to look over his weapon. He seemed distracted from the search and was not paying attention. He ruffled one hand through his short brown hair and wiped it down his face in a manner that suggested he had not slept enough the night before.

  Suddenly there was motion on the opposite end of the roadway, at Markman's ten o'clock. He tightened up as the second aggressor emerged into the rutted road. This one had ivory-blond hair tucked under a black, longshoreman's cap and wore his goggles in place. He looked carefully in all directions as he waved at his startled partner. Though both men were now in the clear, they were one hundred and eighty degrees apart. The chances of taking them both out in one clean sweep were fifty-fifty at best. The man on the right was closer, and clearly the lesser threat. No more than one shot could be allowed for him if there was any chance of getting them both. The man on the opposite side was too far away for a single shot. To try for him would be to risk losing both. But, there was no time to wait for more opportunity than this.

  Markman drew a careful bead on the crouching figure of the nearer aggressor. The man's goggles were still pushed back over his head. The shot had to be placed carefully to avoid hitting him in the face. The well-oiled trigger mechanism squeezed back smoothly. Markman braced. The gun popped. Red paint splattered in the man's lap. It covered his stomach, hand, and gun. He pushed back in vain and cursed out loud. In one smooth motion, Markman swung around and tried to draw a bead on the second target. Looking west down the forest-lined service road, there was nothing to see; no movement in the roadside vegetation; no sound of retreat in the woods. The better of the two had gotten away.

  With reckless speed, Markman dropped from his position in the tree and knelt within the brush cover at its base. He scanned as much area as possible, paying close attention to the greenery along the roadsides. The aggressor that had been eliminated remained in the same spot, wiping red paint from his gun and hands, mumbling something understandable only from its caustic tone.

  With weapon poised, Markman lurched across the narrow trail and dove into the forest on the other side. The element of surprise had been lost. The game was even. There had been no way to tell if the enemy had gone to the north or south side of the road. It was unlikely he had retreated from his prey, but there was still a way to make the contest less even, and at the same time put the pursuer on the defensive. It was the oldest and best of tricks for the hunted. Move quickly on ahead, find a good place with the right cover, wait there and strike, then move out and do it all over again. Such a strategy would allow an advance toward the target destination while making it difficult for the pursuer to make progress.

  It was a safe bet that the service road would lead to the main house. Following along in the wooded cover beside it would provide a visual break to the left. Markman weaved quickly through the thickest of the plants and trees, taking less time to clear his bursts of forward movement than before. He could account for five aggressors now; four had been defeated, one was stalking, probably somewhere behind.

  Through breaks in the trees, the irregular outline of the main mansion became visible at times, though it was far enough away that success was anything but assured. Markman paused briefly in a cluster of young oak trees to scan a leaf-covered stretch of clearing, twenty feet of vulnerability. It felt safe. He broke out into the open and made for the other side, but on the fifth step his right foot sunk and twisted into soft earth. With a distressing lack of grace, he fell face first to the ground.

  Fortunately, the impact was cushioned. He hurriedly pushed himself up on hands and knees, looked worriedly around, and discovered he had fallen in a small, dry stream bed that had become so filled with dry leaves that it was imperceptible, except by those running ignorantly across it.

  He scrambled to his feet and turned with knees bent to look for his pursuer. He thought to lunge for cover but stopped. The trench was an opportunity. It was large enough to conceal a man lying on his back. The only question was, would there be time to do it? He decided to gamble. He dropped to his knees and furiously scooped leaves from the hole until he had formed a coffin-like niche. He lowered himself carefully into a sitting position, facing in the direction of the mansion. The hunter would probably approach from behind. Hastily, he covered his legs and lay back with the paintball gun resting on his chest, scooping in leaves until all was covered except his left arm and face. With a final adjustment to his goggles, he finished the job and wormed his left hand down into the bed of leaves and became a hidden part of the forest. The uncomfortable wait began.

  The timing had been very close. No more than two minutes had passed before the sound of crackling leaves betrayed the pursuer. Something had begun crawling on Markman's face when the crunching noise from the carefully placed footsteps came alongside and to the left of his face. The crackling moved past his position and stopped for a few seconds, then continued on. The hunter, afraid of what might lie beyond the clearing, was picking his way warily.

  Whatever was inching along, prickling across Markman's face was doing so at an excruciatingly slow crawl. It tickled his nose and sat on his upper lip as though confused by the warmth of the human terrain it had found. The footsteps continued to move lightly away from Markman's buried form. He struggled to concentrate on the separation between himself and the target, three feet; then five; then ten.

  As the sounds began to grow faint, he erupted upward from his shallow grave like a dead man coming back to life. He jerked the gun outward, firing repeatedly as his squinted stare came into focus on the aggressor's back. Paint balls splattered on the shoulders and spine as the startled black form jerked away from the onslaught too late. Wavy blond hair that hung to the shoulders escaped from beneath the longshoreman's cap as the hunter turned to face the striking prey. It was an attractive young woman, and with her paintball gun hanging from her left hand, she put her wrists on her hips and made an exaggerated frown. She gave Markman the middle finger sign and laughed. "First time that ever happened!"

  Markman climbed to his feet and bent over to wipe the large red insect from his face. He began brushing dirt and leaves from his clothes and continued to look around. "Couldn't take any chances with you, you're a bit too fast."

  "Then I demand a rematch, whatever your name is."

  "Maybe some other time. Right now you'll excuse me if I don't hang around to discuss it."

  "Five down, one to go...," she called out as he ducked into cover and left her. He doubted her scoring. There was no sense in taking the chance of giving her the last laugh by having her partners, if there were more, drop him this close to the finish.

  The mansion was not far. A few steps later he found himself at the inner edge of the Fishkin forest. A thirty-foot stretch of freshly cut, chemically green lawn was all that separated him from the finish line. The building was the textbook definition of extravagance. It was a polished-looking cream-colored castle with a multitude of different roof levels that ended in towers with narrow, high windows. Balconies were placed at different points around the upper floors, some pronounced, others abbreviated. The highest elevation looked to be three stories, though the towers rose a floor above that. Directly in front of Markman, across the cultivated expanse of green grass, a wide portion of outdoor patio was partly hidden behind a section of ash-colored rock wall. Numerous, pristine-white aluminum umbrellas rose above the wall, suggesting shaded tables were the preferred medium of comfort for those who relaxed in the hospitality of Mr. Fishkin. Beyond the scattered umbrellas, the tops of a dozen sliding glass doors provided access to the
mansion. The patio wall was low enough that a diving leap would clear it easily. The fifty-foot stretch of lawn could be covered in less than four or five seconds.

  But something held Markman back. A nagging little feeling told him the open section of ground was being watched. One way or another that would have to be proven.

  He braced himself and charged into the open. He allowed himself only half a dozen steps, then spun around and cut back toward the man-made forest. A storm of paint balls began to fly, but the shootist had expected him to continue for home base and had led the target appropriately. The barrage fell well wide, but the failed shots had been nicely placed. There was no question that they had been delivered by an expert marksman with a powerful gun.

  It was time to pull one more trick out of the bag. Markman stood up from his place in the brush and returned several shots in the general direction of the sniper, hoping to make his own hiding place more obvious and with luck draw the hunter in.

  The sniper had taken a position on the forest edge with hopes of getting a clean shot just before the finish line. It was doubtful he would approach from that direction, too obvious. He would likely move in a lateral line and attack from the inside with a chance of possibly pinning his victim against the open stretch of grass.

  Markman wrenched off his camouflage pullover shirt, keeping a close eye on the surrounding terrain. He strapped his weapon over his shoulder, dropped onto one knee within the brush cover and began stuffing dry, brown leaves into the shirt. When he had finished, the pullover clothing looked like a stiff, headless, overweight torso. Within the green foliage, he quickly found a spot where the brush almost parted, and where it was just thin enough to partially see through. He fastened his makeshift decoy there, in a hunched-over position with its back facing in the direction the predator was most likely to approach. A thin branch from the same bush would provide limited movement for the rogue figure. Holding it, he crawled as far away from his decoy as possible. He pulled his rifle into place and positioned himself on his stomach at the base of the blind, then gathered leaves for added cover and arranged them in such a way as to allow himself a clear shot across a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree field of fire. He hoped his own black turtleneck would blend in.

  This aggressor was more cautious than the others. Ten minutes had passed before there was any sign of movement among the trees, and even then it was so slight it remained questionable. Five more minutes passed, and there was still nothing obvious. The air grew very still. An ominous presence was somewhere near. Markman could feel it.

  Without warning, two shots rang out. Red paint splattered on the stuffed camouflaged shirt and brush around it. Markman jerked slightly on the branch he had been holding and animated his poorly constructed decoy. He stifled a laugh and yelled, "Oh no!"

  The black jumpsuit of the shooter became visible in the trees. It was a young man with sandy brown hair and deep-muscled features in his face. He stepped forward and cautiously fired again, striking the helpless shirt with a great deal of accuracy. He laughed out loud and lowered his rifle. "What a dummy. You made it all this way!"

  Markman squeezed off two quick shots, striking him with two deep thuds in the center of his chest. The man jumped, touched the red paint on his suit and stared at his hand in disbelief. Markman rose up from his hiding place, smiled and shrugged. "Wrong dummy, dummy!"

  The man shook his head and moaned, "Damn!"

  Markman waved and returned to the edge of the forest. The wall that marked the finish line seemed to dare him to cross. It was now or never. He shouldered his weapon, took a deep breath and broke into the clearing. He raced in a zigzag across the open stretch of green carpet and made the wall. No shots were fired. He dove over and rolled on his back on tiled floor to a standing position.

  The game was won.

  Chapter 14