The Dying Game

by Asa Avdic

  In time, it became clear that there were downsides. I couldn’t sleep. Instead of relaxing, I lay there wide awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to sort out my life in my thousand tiny inner boxes. I became increasingly exhausted, and I started taking sleeping pills so I could wind down. Somewhere around that point was where it all began to go off the rails. My thoughts became more and more muddled, and my hands started to shake. So I took more pills to get rid of the tremors. At the same time, the situation in the region escalated and became more dangerous, both inside and outside the camp. I constantly ran into conflict with the military arm of the effort, the people who really just wanted to bomb the whole region to pieces. People began to avoid me. I started making mistakes. Forgivable ones at first, and, later, unforgivable ones.

  When I was finally sent home and admitted to the hospital, they said it was for addiction and rehabilitation. I surrendered myself to care, but in secret I never truly believed that FLL was my problem. For me, it wasn’t really all that difficult to stop taking the pills, especially when they threatened to take Siri away from me permanently if I didn’t go through “the Comrades’ Twelve Steps to Sobriety.” The rehab center I was eventually moved to was perhaps the most depressing place I had ever been, including the refugee camp in Kyzyl Kum. We had group therapy sessions, in which miners from Kiruna with large port-wine noses cried about how they had drunk away the family Volvo, and young party members sobbed over how they had missed out on top jobs due to imported cocaine.

  I lied at those meetings. I lied as I had never lied before. I played the most brilliant role of my life, crying and shaking, alternately denying my problems and having revelations, and I received standing ovations as thanks for my efforts. No one saw through me. Or else they all saw through me, but weren’t actually all that interested. It didn’t matter to me; I lied my way through treatment and out of the rehab center, back to my own apartment and my old job. I left the rehab center in October, on a day when the daylight didn’t even try. I stood in the circle and everyone got to say their final words to me. We hugged and exchanged the obligatory contact information. When I got home to my apartment, I threw all those slips of paper into the trash and immediately took the bag to the garbage chute, where it vanished with that tumbling suctiony rumble that sounded like you had just opened a portal straight out into space.

  Then it was back to everyday life, that utterly colorless time. I was back at my job, but I soon asked to be given less demanding tasks, using my condition as an excuse. You could say that I basically just sorted paper clips. Day in and day out. My coworkers tried to pretend that everything was normal, but I noticed them watching me and avoiding me, the way you make a wide berth around a car accident but at the same time you can’t help but stare. Sometimes, when newspapers wanted to interview me or when they called from TV news programs and invited me to comment on the situation in Kyzyl Kum, I hung up on them. Sometimes I wrote e-mails and pretended to be my own secretary, who informed them that I needed peace and quiet for reasons that were slightly unclear. Sometimes I wrote that I was, unfortunately, out of town. It didn’t matter to me if they knew I was bluffing. I went straight home after work and spent the nights alone in my apartment. Sometimes I thought about Henry. It was winter, and it was dark around the clock.

  On weekends and on Wednesday nights, I went to visit Siri and Nour. I tried to find an excuse to cancel every time, even though I constantly longed for Siri. I always went. We never quite had the discussion about when Siri would move back. Sometimes I discovered Nour studying me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I also noticed that she was unwilling to leave me alone with Siri for any length of time. Apparently I hadn’t fooled her.

  I CRAWLED OVER to my clothes, dug the pill bottle out of my pocket, and poured a whole pile of tablets into my palm. They felt so familiar in my hand, like something that should have been there long ago, that always should have been there. Pale blue and round against my skin. They had cost me so much; the doctors and therapists at the rehab center would surely have said that they almost ruined my life. I pushed those thoughts aside and popped the pills into my mouth. I swallowed hard and waited for the panic to subside, the way it usually did. That release, like a tide going out, like a storm rolling away. I lay down on my side again, waiting, breathing. And then, slowly, I felt the panic sink back, but it still wasn’t quite how I had imagined. My head felt odd, light, as if it were a balloon. I couldn’t quite orient myself in the room. It struck me that I probably didn’t have the same tolerance I’d had before, when I was taking them every day, sometimes several times a day. I had just swallowed a handful of pills, and I didn’t really know how they would affect me. But in any case, it was better. Everything was better than it had been a minute ago.

  I lay on my back and let my head float around just as it wanted to. My breathing started to return to normal. My eyes roved over the ceiling. That was when I saw it. Deep in one corner. A small but unmistakable black eye. A camera. I stood up, unsteadily, and walked over to it. It was too high for me to reach, so I awkwardly dragged a chair over and climbed onto it, my legs trembling. It really did look like the eye of a camera. I waved my hand in front of it, the way kids do when they see themselves on a security cam in a store. It was impossible to tell whether it was on.

  I climbed back down off the chair and looked around the room. On the other side was a three-legged stool made of metal. I grabbed it, climbed up on the chair again, and slammed the stool into the wall with all my strength, right next to the camera. It left a small mark, but nothing more. I flipped the stool around and tried using its legs instead. That worked better. The wall gave a crunch, and after a few more bangs I managed to knock a hole in the wall. I stuck my hand in and was able to pry the camera out a little bit. It was attached to the wall with cords. A tiny blue light glowed on the part of the camera that had been hidden behind the wall. Apparently it was on. Even in my condition, I knew what that meant. Someone was watching me.

  All of a sudden, I had had enough of all this. It was a very hasty decision. I took hold of the camera and yanked it with all my might, and it came loose from the wall. A tangle of cords followed it, like guts attached to a larger organ. The blue light faded and slowly went out. I placed the camera on the floor, grabbed the metal stool, and aimed a blow. On the first attempt, the stool struck the floor a few inches from the camera; on the second, I hit my mark. A piece of black plastic flew off. The lens was the next piece to bite the dust, and a few shards of glass hit the floor. It occurred to me that if anyone was watching me right now, they knew that I had found the camera—but it didn’t matter, because I had already decided I didn’t care. When I was done, I fumblingly put on my clothes, tucked the gun into my waistband at the small of my back, and climbed up through the hatch.

  I lay in the chest freezer for a while, the code coming and going in my memory, but at last I managed to unlock the lid. I went through the medical station and out into the hall. It was perfectly quiet in the house, as if it were truly asleep. Not just the people inside it, but the house itself. I opened the front door. It felt like when I was a teenager and tried to sneak home drunk without attracting Nour’s attention, only this time I was sneaking out. Once I walked through the door, I realized how cold it was. The wind was no longer blowing at hurricane strength, but it was still a cold and forbidding wind. It was an unbearable temperature for a person wearing only jeans and a camisole, but the cold couldn’t touch me. This was the first time I had been outdoors, and visible, in two days, and it felt odd, like I was changing clothes in a public square.

  I stood on the lawn outside the house, barefoot in the half-light, looking out over the sea. It was truly empty in all directions. There was nowhere to go, no door to bang on, no emergency number to call. It was starting to feel like I was back in the camp at Kyzyl Kum. Maybe I had never left.

  As my feet slowly went numb from the cold, I stood there and calmly tried to think of what I
should do next. It occurred to me that I should try to talk to Jon. Whatever was happening on this island, I had the impression that he was not involved. If he was, he was a much better actor than I could have suspected. Everything he had shown since I vanished suggested that he was honestly confused and upset about what was going on. I turned around and went back into the house, trying to plan how I might try to explain to him that I wasn’t dead, but then I realized that he would, of course, see that for himself and I decided that I probably wouldn’t need to give an explanation.

  I SNEAKED UP the grand staircase as quietly and discreetly as I could, letting my hand run along the extravagant wood carvings, and once I reached the hallway I took a left, away from the wing where Henry and Lotte’s rooms were. I walked up to the thick wooden door of Jon’s room, took a breath, and knocked. No response. I didn’t dare knock again, as it was far too loud, so instead I tested the door handle. The door wasn’t locked. I cracked it and peered into the room; then I allowed the door to open all the way. It gave a slight creak and remained ajar. The bed was unmade and clothes were strewn everywhere. But aside from that, the room was empty. I took a few steps in. The bathroom door was wide open, and no one was in there either. A black leather toiletry bag was balancing on the edge of the sink and there were a few hand towels on the floor. The toilet lid and seat were both up. But there was no Jon in sight.

  I HEARD A sound but couldn’t tell where it was coming from. My hand went to the gun at my waistband, and I pulled it out. It felt cold and heavy. I cautiously sneaked back into the hallway. The door of Henry’s room was ajar. I felt faint and my heart was pounding; something was making my eyes sticky, and I soon realized that it was perspiration trickling into them from my forehead. My whole body was in a cold sweat. I walked toward Henry’s room and tried to peer in. Lotte was in the bed, tucked under the blanket.

  “Lotte! Lotte!”

  I tried to whisper, but I wasn’t sure whether the words actually came out. No reaction. I took a few steps toward the bed. She was lying with her back to me, and a little bit of her terry-cloth robe stuck out at the edge of the blanket. I touched her shoulder. No reaction. I shook her a little harder, and she almost melted onto her back, lifeless. I screamed her name and shook her hard, but nothing happened. My heart was pounding in my ears; it sounded like I was standing next to a freight train. I tried to think, but it felt like I didn’t really need to anymore. There was only one answer left for all these questions, one single answer. I heard a sound behind me and turned around, the revolver curiously heavy in my hand.

  IN THE DOORWAY stood Henry. My hands trembled as I aimed the weapon at him, and I had to hold it with both hands. We stared at each other. Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.

  “So it was you,” I said at last. My voice sounded strange in my ears.

  “Yes, it was me,” Henry said at last, in a low voice. “But it’s not what you think. Put down the gun so I can explain.”

  He took a half step forward. I flipped off the safety.

  “Don’t come any closer. Don’t you fucking come any closer to me.”

  Henry didn’t move.

  “Anna,” he said in a voice that was low and full of concentration. “Put down the gun. I can explain. You’re not yourself right now. What did you take?”

  He took another half step forward.

  “Don’t come any closer!” I shouted. Sweat was running into my eyes; my body felt cold and sticky. The gun seemed absurdly heavy in my hands, and my arms were trembling visibly by now. I forced the words out: “Personal dossiers on me and guns in secret cabinets! One person vanishing after the next! You knew, you knew all along. You were the one who knocked me out in the medical station, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, that was me.”

  “You were the one who made the others disappear, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, that was me, but listen, please, Anna, it’s not what you think. If you’ll just put down the gun . . .”

  He lunged suddenly, a few quick steps toward me, his arm reaching for the weapon. I closed my eyes and fired.

  Henry bounced backward, all the way to the wall, and collapsed. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead. The wall behind him was completely spattered in red. There was something white, sort of like oatmeal, on the floor. His body gave a few jerks and he slithered down a little farther, until he was half reclining, a doll that had been tossed into a corner. I dropped the gun right on the floor and left the room, walked out into the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door.

  It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. The wind had died down and the layer of clouds was beginning to break up. A few rays of the rising sun found their way to the lawn, which was glowing a surreal silvery gray. I walked barefoot on the grass alongside the path and down to the ladder at the edge of the cliff. Seabirds were diving at the water and the glittering sun danced across the rippling sea, as if schools of golden fish were swimming just below the surface. I dangled my feet over the cliff edge and noticed that flecks of blood came pretty high up my pant legs. Far below, I saw the white foam of the waves washing over rocks and tufts of seaweed at the water’s edge. The waves rolled in again and again, like a perpetual motion machine. I gazed out across the sea. Far off on the horizon, I saw an approaching helicopter. First one, then two.

  STOCKHOLM

  THE PROTECTORATE OF SWEDEN

  MAY 2037

  THE COLONEL

  COLONEL PER OLOF Ehnmark was sitting across from them now. He looked a wreck. His eyes were red and his body seemed to hang on his skeleton like a heavy blanket draped over a delicate branch. It looked like he could barely manage to hold himself up. Around him hovered the faint but unmistakable scent of old booze. He didn’t look like he cared.

  He, the lead interrogator, was the one to start. They had made this decision together. Old military men often preferred to speak to other men. He reached for the tape recorder, pressed the button, and leaned toward it a bit as if he didn’t quite trust its ability to capture the sound in the room.

  “The tape is rolling. Initial interrogation of Colonel Ehnmark. I’d first like to thank you for taking the time to assist us.”

  “I don’t suppose I had much of a choice.” The colonel’s voice sounded as tired as his body looked.

  “You are free to leave whenever you like, naturally.” She was the one to interject.

  “Well, isn’t that generous of you,” said the colonel. Then he didn’t say anything further. Apparently he wasn’t planning to make this easy for them. Silence ruled for a moment, until she nudged him discreetly in the side. They had to begin.

  “Well?” he said encouragingly to the colonel.

  “Well?”

  “Colonel, I need a confirmation from you. Are you participating in this interrogation of your own free will?”

  If it was possible, the colonel looked even more tired.

  “Do we really have to go through that procedure? Yes . . .”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Yes, I am participating in this interrogation involving the incidents on Isola of my own free will. Because I assume that’s what you want to talk about?”

  The lead interrogator squirmed with a twinge of awkwardness.

  “I apologize, but . . .”

  “No, right, I am the only one who has to give out any information here, of course. Yes, I am participating voluntarily. Can we get on with it now?”

  Both his shoulders and hers relaxed a fraction of an inch, and he began the interrogation.

  “Naturally. Okay, I would like to begin by asking when you found out that Anna Francis was the mark.”

  “The mark?”

  “The true candidate.”

  The colonel appeared to be thinking back. It was impossible to tell if he truly needed to consider his answer or if he was just trying to annoy them by taking his time.


  “I suspected it from the start. From what I understood of the project, she had the perfect profile. What’s more, I had heard rumors that there might be . . .”

  The colonel cut himself off. The chief interrogator urged him on.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, what to call it? The potential for coercion?”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “I don’t know; I suppose these were more or less just rumors I had heard.”

  “What did those rumors say?”

  The colonel looked uncomfortable and shifted in his chair.

  “That she failed somehow toward the end of her time in Kyzyl Kum. That there had been some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  The colonel shrugged.

  “I don’t know, the usual? PTSD, drugs, breakdowns, some reckless decisions? The same things that afflict everyone sooner or later, everyone who does that sort of work. Same old story, like I said.”

  “You were stationed in that region yourself for a considerable period of time, weren’t you?”

  The question was posed in a mild tone, but the colonel seemed to pinpoint the underlying threat immediately.

  “Yes, and I’m absolutely certain the two of you have read my file and everything worth knowing inside it, but if this conversation turns to my old, bad decisions for even one second, it’s over, so you might as well stop trying that tactic on me. I’m sure you could make my life hell in many ways, but I’m too old to care. I’ve already lost most of what meant anything to me, and if I’m not mistaken, you are the ones who want to talk to me right now. Do you understand the difference? You want something from me, and if you so much as hint that you want to mess with me I will stand up and walk out of here.”