The Assassin Game

by Kirsty McKay

  Daniel stands up, which in Daniel land is tantamount to throwing a punch.

  “Settle down, boys.” Marcia stands up too. “It’s done. Vaughan presented a unique case for being included, and the Elders voted him in. Everything he said about his intranet looks like it’s true, and Crypt will take this Game to new levels.”

  There’s a murmur of discontent, mainly male discontent, and I understand why. People have waited years to make the team, and this new bloke just turns up and joins without any problems.

  Alex hushes everyone. “Rules are this: Vaughan’s obviously not the Killer. He can vote, and he can be Killed. That’s it.”

  “I think it’s a great idea.” Whitney twinkles at Vaughan, peering at him coyly from underneath fronds of black hair. “Welcome.”

  “Good decision, Elders.” Emily is smiling too, crossing and uncrossing those long, tanned legs.

  “Don’t worry. He will have his own special initiation,” Rick says, practically licking his chops.

  The boys laugh at that. You can bet they’ve already discussed what the initiation will be. Rick Musclehead is obviously relishing the chance to be cruel and unusual with someone new.

  “So, to this week’s Kills,” Alex says. “We have much to talk about…”

  Vaughan sits down on an empty crate beside me; I can feel the girls’ eyes on him, and I surprise myself with a tiny slither of pleasure at the fact he is beside me.

  “Our Killer has been very busy,” Alex says. “I can only commend them for that. I can’t remember a year when there were three murders in the first week.”

  “Two!” Tesha says. “Only two!”

  Alex closes his eyes and pauses for a moment. “The first Kill. We boys didn’t get to see it in the flesh, but of course we have our spies everywhere, even the girls’ shower room.”

  The boys laugh. Some of the girls tut and roll their eyes.

  “You wouldn’t dare put a camera in there!” Whitney says, loving the idea a little too much.

  “Hey, Vaughan”—Carl grins, his freckled face lighting up—“can we post videos on this new intranet?”

  Vaughan nods. “Oh, it’s definitely possible.” He cracks his knuckles. “But let’s not go there.”

  “Enough!” Alex says. “As I was saying, the first Kill. We open with a classic: blood shower. Our Killer is kicking off to a great start with a nod to traditions past. Well done, whoever you are.”

  No one speaks. We all sit there, eyeing each other, wondering who the guilty one is.

  “Second Kill, however, Killer goes big,” Alex says. “And sadly, classy goes out the window.”

  “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Cynthia stutters out the words, pulling a blanket around her thin frame protectively.

  “Yeah, well,” Alex says. “Cynthia has a bloody wake, and the pool is out of action for the rest of the term.” He sits up a little. “Now that in itself may be no bad thing, but the Killer broke the cardinal rule on this one: don’t incur the wrath of staff. Because while they will tolerate stupid stuff and the odd mess that can be wiped away, Ezra does not like pool clean-ups that cost him major dough.”

  Carl leans forward. “We removed the waterfowl, and the paint was all but diluted within minutes, but even so. The pool has to be drained. Ezra called Alex and me into his office to ask us what we knew about it. Obviously, we know nothing and told him it was a random prank, not part of the Game. He gave us the benefit—this time. But one more stunt like that, and the Game could be in jeopardy.”

  “And you wouldn’t want that,” says Roger, excitedly slapping his palms on to fat thighs as he sits. “Not while you’ve still got some more Kills in you, Carl.”

  Carl grins wolfishly and winks at him. I wonder if it is him. There’s something unsettling about Carl. He’s the real strategist of the Elders. Alex is the mouthpiece, and Marcia the obvious brains, but I suspect a lot of the ideas originate from Carl. He’s like a man in boy’s clothing, and he unnerves me a little.

  “And that brings us to Kill three, or at least, attempt three.” Alex finishes the sentence before Tesha can jump on in. “Now, I have nothing but awe for the concept. Nice creativity, but stupidly messy and stupidly random. Firstly, Killer, you need to remember that you’re a serial psycho, not a mass murderer. One Kill at a time. You can Kill one victim, then do another five minutes later for all I care. But they have to be separate murders, not the result of raining blood-soaked tennis balls on the general populace. There were non-Guild there, and if you had hit them, you would be history. As it is, we all know you splattered three apprentices: Tesha, Whitney, Anvi. So who’s dead?”

  The three sit up, awaiting their fate.

  “We Elders have voted on it,” Marcia drawls.

  “And it looks like you were targeted, Tesha,” says Cynthia. Tesha’s face drops. Even the curls droop a little.

  “But,” Alex says, “we can’t be sure. It was too imprecise. And because of that, all three of you live to fight another day.” He lets the girls have their noisy celebration and told-you-sos. “Be specific, Killer! This is your first and last warning; don’t let it happen again or your reign is over. And”—he turns to the girls—“be on your guard! Chances are one of you was on the Killer’s hit list. Don’t make it easy for them.”

  Alex relaxes a little and cracks open a can of something. “Right, before we vote on who the Killer is, there’s time for Zuckerberg here to show us around our new digital home. Fire up the generator.”

  Rick exits into the corridor, and the fairy lights flicker on. The generator hums as Marcia taps away on the laptop and then hands it to Alex. He swings the screen around to face us all.

  “The Elders have discussed how this is going to work, and it’s up to its creator to explain it all to the rest of you. Vaughan?”

  Vaughan leaps up and takes the stage willingly. He taps on the keyboard, and the school’s intranet home page comes up. It’s a photograph of the school with links to the instant messaging app, a school bulletin board, and the online version of the school newspaper. In the top right-hand corner is the school crest, a large red flower against a yellow shield, with a phoenix rising behind the shield. Vaughan smiles at us all.

  “I’m aware that almost everyone here is dazzlingly clever, but for the sake of the athletes among us, I’ve kept the log-in process simple.”

  Rick mock laughs and swears under his breath. Vaughan is not winning himself many friends from that particular demographic.

  “First time you log in, it must be from a laptop. All you need to do is this.” Vaughan talks as if to a toddler and moves the cursor until it is centered on the eye of the phoenix. “Left click, while holding down Control and K, I, L simultaneously, like so.”

  “Oh yeah—like how many fingers do we need to do that, eh?” Rick scoffs.

  “You do need two free hands, so you’ll have to take one out of your pants,” Vaughan says seriously. Rick glares at him. It’s true he has a full-on pocket billiards habit. The girls—and Alex and Carl—reward Vaughan with a laugh.

  Rick points at the screen. “And nothing has happened. Uh- oh, broken.”

  “I’d forgive you for thinking so, Rick,” Vaughan says. “But guess what? You have to press the buttons again! Input that key combo twice in more than five seconds and less than ten. So just one-crocodile, two-crocodile up to six, press again, and you’re in. Simple…provided you can count that high.”

  “Ha-ha,” Rick says. “Tell another one, I’m wetting myself.”

  “Oh no.” Vaughan looks at him, concerned. “How unfortunate for you.” He presses the keys, his eyes on Rick all the time, and the screen with the William Blake picture comes up again. “And here we are. Now click on the owl, and when the password box pops up, enter ‘Neanderthal Ricky’—”

  “Are you kidding me?” Rick yells.

  “Ah,
so astute.” Vaughan grins at him. “I am. Enter ‘Live2playPlay2live’ in the box.” He grabs Marcia’s pad and pen, tears off a piece of paper, and writes the password down. “Memorize this. Do not copy down. This note will self-destruct in ten seconds.” He displays it as we all read and commit to memory, and then he crumples the paper, pops it in his mouth, and starts to chew.

  “Nutter,” Rick says.

  Vaughan chews some more and some more, finally swallows, licks his lips, and hits Return. A second box pops up. “Now, it’ll ask you to create a profile. Once everyone has done that, I’ll Easter egg a prompt box on the school home page for easy access.”

  “Easter egg?” Rick snarls. “What are you, a fluffy bunny?”

  “He means he’ll hide it, Rick,” Tesha says scornfully. “Do you know nothing?”

  “Not everybody here speaks nerd,” Rick shoots back.

  “Thanks for proving my previous point.” Vaughan smiles at him sympathetically. “Don’t worry. You’ll all be told how to find it. Then you’ll be able to access the network from any laptop, tablet, whatever.” He types quickly and hits Return. “And we’re off!” The page with the skull flashes up again. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Crypt.” Vaughan smiles at it lovingly.

  “Everyone, even the recently deceased”—he nods at Cynthia and Becky—“everyone gets to create a profile. And here’s the thing; it’s up to you to decide if you want to give your real name. I suggest we all go incognito. More mystery that way, no?” Vaughan looks out at his rapt audience. “Once you’ve registered and created your own username and password, this little darling works like your common or garden social network. Here’s the bulletin board, where all the official things get posted by Alex or Marcia or me, and then here’s a rolling wall with everyone else’s posts. You can post text, pictures, photos even.” He smiles at us. “Not that anyone’s got their phones, presumably. But if you’re a traditionalist with an actual camera, go crazy.”

  “What if someone sees this page when you’re looking at it?” Anvi asks. “It seems really risky.”

  “Well, you’ll obviously do your best to prevent that from happening,” Vaughan says. “We all have our designated World Wide Web time, so a teacher or nonplayer is not necessarily going to think anything is amiss if they catch a glimpse of the page. But if you’re completely inactive on your machine for sixty seconds—no browsing, typing, scrolling—Crypt will redirect to the school home page. Emergency? Then hit Escape or End, and it’s an instant kill switch back to Umfraville Central.”

  “Tell us about the messaging,” Tesha says. “How does that work?”

  “Thank you for asking.” Vaughan clicks on a link and a box appears at the bottom of the screen. “This is your normal Umfraville intranet IM box. Crypt just cuckoos into this box. It drops your Killer IMs in here, both public and private messages.” He looks at us. “Only difference is your public Killer messages are also available to view on Crypt, as part of your news feed. Got it? This way, when you’re logged into Crypt, you can be working on something totally legit and still have one eye on the Game.”

  “You’ve really thought of everything,” Rick snarks.

  “Nice of you to notice,” Vaughan says.

  “Tell them about the tracking,” Alex says quietly.

  “Ooh, I will!” Vaughan claps his hands. “OK, folks—so if you click on this little map icon, you can see which users are online at which locations.”

  He clicks, and a map of the isle of Skola pops up. There are a couple giggles. It’s been designed in a blocky, pseudo-medieval style, very Minecraft. There are even little people walking around, clutching books.

  “So cute!” says Whitney, beaming at Vaughan. “And really clever. You built this all yourself?”

  Vaughan nods, trying to look cool, but I know him well enough to guess that he’s bursting with happiness.

  The map is fun. There’s Main House and then the various satellite buildings—the boys’ dorms, the studios, classrooms and laboratories, the library quad and studies, the theater, rec center, and staff quarters—and then the pool, playing fields, and amphitheater.

  “You can zoom in and out.” Vaughan shows us. I lean in and see the caves marked and the causeway to the mainland. Vaughan has clearly spent time exploring the island—when did he have the chance? Every beach and wood is depicted, and the fields to the north of the island have little cube sheep and cows in them.

  “Tracking. How does it work? Well…” Vaughan clears his throat. “As we are all painfully aware, there are only four reliable locations you can get on to the Umfraville intranet with Wi-Fi: the quad, the computer science lab and nearby classrooms, Marcia’s newspaper office, and now here in the caves. But just for the extra frisson”—Vaughan’s eyes light up—“on this map, I’ve included every workstation in the school.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” I ask.

  “Meaning…” Vaughan’s eyes are twinkling in the candlelight. “Any hardwired machine that is connected to the school intranet is also fair game, potentially. The PC in Ezra’s office, for example, or Mr. Flynn’s Mac in his cottage”—he winks at me—“if you can access any of those to spice things up a little, by all means, do. You’ll show up on the map as a little red skull, tagged with your username, and we’ll all know where you are.”

  “I don’t get it,” Martin says, shaking his dark, spiky head. “Why would we want tracking anyway?”

  “Because we get to know who is where and when,” Marcia answers for Vaughan. “If you know users A, B, and C were online in the library at the time of a Killing in the ballroom, you could potentially guess who those users are and eliminate them from your suspect list.”

  “That’s only the beginning,” Vaughan says, then nods to Alex. “Our Grand Master has made the decision not to activate tracking now, but when he does…” Vaughan lets out a low whistle. “Hold on to your hats…”

  “OK.” Alex slaps the table. “Everyone, you have twenty-four hours to log on and create your profile. Then look out for the first post from me.”

  He stands up and reaches for the velvet bag on the table. “Rick, kill the generator. It’s time for our main event. We need to vote.” He walks into the alcove and pulls back the curtain. There’s an audible gasp from us apprentices as we see the altar for the first time. It’s bigger than I expected. A dark wooden central pillar holds multilevel shelves, staggered at random like branches of a tree. Each shelf is lit with votive candles and is laden with photographs and trinkets from Games past. There are curly-cornered pictures of old Guild members: kids in masks with wicked smiles on their faces. There’s a pewter goblet, its rim crusted with something terrible, a school tie fashioned into a hangman’s noose, and a shiny, black “bomb” with a fuse sticking out of it. The yellow skull is on the uppermost shelf and around it are piles of bracelets, cut from the wrists of poor victims long ago.

  Alex empties slips of paper from the velvet bag into a big brassy bowl at the altar and turns around to us. “When it is your turn, take a slip, write a name, and place it in the velvet bag. If you don’t know who the Killer is, write anything—Elvis, Mickey Mouse—but write something. If you know who the Killer is, write his or her name down. But be very sure, because if you guess wrong, you’re out of the Game.”

  We take our turn, in order of when we were harvested. I’m last. I get to watch everyone walk into the alcove, kneel, and scribble something. Some people are really quick, some ridiculously slow. Finally, it’s my go. I kneel on the dark cushion placed on the cold, sandy floor and take a slip of paper. I reach for the Pen of Doom—an oversized wooden stick with skulls carved into it. It is heavy and unbalanced in my hand, and as I clutch the end, my hands are slippery with cold sweat. I feel everyone’s eyes on my back. Do I know who the Killer is?

  I do not.

  I write: Santa Claus

  After I’ve scribbled it, I pause,
mainly because I wish I could think of something wittier. But that’s it. I fold the slip once, twice, three times.

  I place the slip in the bag. It’s half-open, with a few of the other pieces of paper visible. I try to make out writing, but everyone has been thorough with their origami.

  Alex is standing, waiting for me to finish as I exit the alcove.

  “I’ll read the votes,” he announces to all, then steps inside the alcove and pulls a curtain across.

  We watch the curtain and listen. The sound of the sea in the background is very eerie—not so much waves hitting the shore, more a kind of low rumble, echoing through the caves. I strain my ears. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I believe I can hear the sound of paper against paper, Alex unfolding, examining, discarding.

  He laughs quietly. Clearly somebody’s suggestion was wittier than mine. A minute later, there’s another low guffaw. Then nothing. We wait. And wait some more. Then it gets a little ridiculous. Alex is taking more time to read everything than we took to write it all in the first place. Has he fallen asleep? Gone missing down a rabbit hole? I look at the bottom of the curtain, trying to see some movement of feet, a shadow, something.

  Suddenly the curtain is drawn back, and I stifle a scream.

  A cloaked figure, wearing a mask, holding a flaming bowl of fire in front of him.

  “Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!” Alex has his ceremonial voice on again. It’s actually quite funny, but we apprentices jump a mile. The others get to smirk at us.

  Alex lowers the bowl to the ground, then scoops up a pile of sand, extinguishing the flames. He stands, cloak and mask still in place. He extends his arms to his audience.

  “There were no correct votes cast at this Summoning,” he booms. “But I did appreciate ‘Killer Kardashian’ and ‘your mum.’”