Insert Coin to Continue

by John David Anderson

  Then he stopped.

  The text had come to an abrupt halt, leaving only one line flashing, this one at the top of the screen.

  PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE.

  Bryan took a deep breath. He sat up in his chair.

  PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE.

  He reached out and hesitantly tapped the space bar.

  ARE YOU SURE (Y/N)?

  “Am I sure?”

  Bryan couldn’t remember the last time he was 100 percent certain of anything.

  He knew what he should do. He should just unplug the thing and give it a minute to cool down and then restart. He should leave it alone. Odds were nothing good could come of this. Nothing at all.

  Then again, if he continued . . .

  Bryan held his breath and pressed the space bar.

  There was a sound, a soft whimper like a metallic sigh, and then the whole thing shut down. The computer. The monitor. The speakers. All of it. As if it had blown a fuse. None of the buttons were flashing. The fan stopped its steady whir. Dead. He’d killed it.

  Bryan cursed and banged on the keyboard a few times, then counted to ten and pressed the power button on the tower. Nothing. The monitor wouldn’t even come on. The whole thing was fried.

  “Terrific! Just terrific!” He kicked at the computer and it rocked back and forth. His parents were going to be so ticked. Bryan crawled under the desk, checked the plugs, jiggled the wires. No effect.

  He looked at the clock. It was 11:37. He had school tomorrow. His mom would hissy fit big-time if she knew he was still awake. He listened for her footsteps in the hall, afraid that his own cursing had woken her, but there was only silence.

  There was nothing he could do about it tonight. He would have to deal with the broken computer tomorrow after school. Maybe he could take it over to Mike Merano’s. Mikey was a big math geek who sometimes rebuilt computers and phones and stuff in his garage. Maybe it had just blown a circuit. He tried one last time to power it up, saying a short prayer, but to no avail. Then he collapsed onto his bed without even pulling up the sheets and buried his face in a pillow.

  That had been it. The secret level. He was sure of it. And then the whole thing had come crashing down. As usual.

  Oz would never believe him. Nobody would. With his computer fried there was no telling what damage had been done. His saved games were probably gone. The software could have been corrupted. Still, he knew. He had been right on the cusp of something magical.

  It is time for your true journey to begin.

  He couldn’t worry about it. Tomorrow was Friday. He would have the weekend to mess with it. Maybe he could get the computer fixed, reload the program, get his character back to the level it was. It would take hours. Days. But he could at least get started. He had the whole weekend to himself.

  It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.

  FRIDAY, 7:00 a.m.

  THE FIRST COIN

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  Bryan swept out blindly with his hand and missed. It took three more attempts before he managed to silence the alarm.

  He didn’t move. He still felt exhausted, drained. It couldn’t be morning already. He had been deeply immersed in this dream where he was battling a giant gorilla on the roof of a hotel. The gorilla was throwing humongous fruit at him—oversize apples, rolling oranges—and Bryan had to leap, ballet style, over each one as it came barreling toward him. The trouble was, he kept running and jumping but he wasn’t getting anywhere. He could see the end, but he couldn’t reach it. The alarm pulled him out of the dream just as he was tumbling over the ledge.

  The dream must have worn him out, the sheer thought of running and jumping for his life. His legs were still asleep. He couldn’t get them to move. Bryan pulled himself up on his elbows and rubbed his eyes, afraid to get to his feet until he got some blood back into them, knowing they would crackle as if the nerves were on fire. He looked over at his alarm clock to confirm what time it was.

  The clock read 7:01.

  In itself unpleasant, as always, but that wasn’t all. This morning there was another message.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  Bryan shoved his fists into his eyes again, then blinked repeatedly, staring at the words written above the clock in iridescent blue. Just hanging there above Bryan’s nightstand like a holographic projection. Bryan reached over to touch the letters, but as soon as his hand went through them, they vanished. When he brought his hand back, they reappeared.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  “I’m still asleep,” he murmured. He shook his head, trying to lose the image of the strange electric-blue words hanging above his clock, and went to swing his legs out of bed, hoping a shower would wake him up. He was delirious. He could use some caffeine. Maybe he could steal some of his father’s coffee.

  His legs didn’t move.

  They wouldn’t move. They were two solid blocks under his camouflage bedspread. He could see their outline in the blanket, could even sense them, muscle and bone. His brain sent out the signals—Come on now, legs, get moving, up and at ’em—but they wouldn’t obey.

  He was paralyzed from the waist down.

  Bryan started to panic. He pounded on both legs with his fists, willing them to wake up. He was about to call out for his parents when a thought occurred to him.

  Maybe he hadn’t woken up yet. Maybe this was still just part of his dream. In a couple of minutes his real alarm would go off and he would be back in his normal bedroom with his normal legs, which would move like normal legs do. Bryan closed his eyes and kept them closed for a moment. When he opened them again, he noticed something flashing beside him. The words above the clock had started blinking on and off.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  And beneath them, now, was a number.

  20, it said. Then, 19, 18, 17. And with each second the message would flash.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  16. 15. 14.

  Bryan pinched his arm, hard enough to make himself wince, then glanced down at the alarm clock. There was a slot in the center of it that he was certain hadn’t been there before. Just above the snooze button. The kind you might find in the top of a piggy bank. Just large enough for a quarter.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  12. 11. 10.

  Next to the clock lay the contents of Bryan’s jeans pockets, emptied the night before. His phone. A mostly empty pack of gum and eighty-eight cents in change.

  INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE.

  8. 7.

  Figuring that it was still part of his dream somehow and disoriented by the numbers counting down, Bryan grabbed a quarter from the pile and dropped it in the slot on the clock. He heard it hit metal, clinking its way along, as if it were traveling through some steel-walled labyrinth before settling somewhere seemingly far away. Instantly the timer stopped and the words disappeared.

  Bryan could feel his legs again.

  They were just fine. Completely responsive. He slid out of bed, gingerly testing his footing. “Okaaaaay,” he whispered to the empty room. He looked at the alarm clock. No words. No slots. Just 7:02.

  He walked to the bathroom, putting a hand against the wall to steady himself. He needed that shower. Priority one. He took a good look at himself in the mirror while the water warmed. His eyes were bloodshot. He was several weeks overdue for a haircut. Otherwise, he looked normal. Tired but normal. Bryan took a deep breath and stepped into the tub, letting the steam envelop him.

  When he emerged, he felt better. More like himself. He wandered back to his room and looked at the alarm clock again. Still just an alarm clock. Maybe he had just imagined the whole thing. Some kind of after-sleep delusion. He dug in the pile of laundry by his bed for yesterday’s jeans and put them on, then slipped into a blue-and-white T-shirt that didn’t smell too bad. He pocketed the stuff on his nightstand, put on his socks a
nd tennis shoes, and checked himself in the mirror.

  He held his breath. There stood his reflection, looking back at him in his old blue jeans and ratty shirt. Except listed along the sides of his profile, suspended in midair again, were those same pixilated blue letters. This time they didn’t say anything about inserting a coin. Instead they were labels that pointed to Bryan’s outfit.

  There was an arrow pointing to his jeans.

  BREECHES OF ENDURING STIFFNESS. +1 DEFENSE. COLD RESISTANCE +10%.

  And another pointing to his shirt.

  TUNIC OF UNWASHING. +1 DEFENSE. -2 CHARISMA.

  One pointing to his shoes.

  BOOTS OF AVERAGE WALKING SPEED. FIRE RESISTANCE +5%.

  And pointing to his head was still another arrow. Next to it was the word NONE.

  Bryan looked behind him to see if the words were projected on the opposite wall somehow, but they could only be seen in the mirror. He looked down at his shoes. Three-year-old Adidas cross-trainers that he’d had long enough to buy new laces for. “Boots of Average Walking Speed?” he repeated to himself. He glanced back at the mirror, reading the labels silently, then quickly looked around the room and found his Chicago Cubs baseball cap dangling from his bedpost. He reached over and grabbed it, then stood back in front of the mirror and put it on.

  Where the arrow pointing to his head had once said NONE, it now said: HELMET OF ENDURING FAITH. -1 INTELLIGENCE. +5 PIETY.

  He took the cap off, back on, off, back on. The words changed accordingly, appearing and disappearing with every move.

  “Okay. Now I’m just going crazy,” he muttered to himself.

  From downstairs he heard his mother call him. He quickly stuffed his books into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, taking one last glance in the mirror and freezing there.

  BURDENSOME BAG OF KNOWLEDGE, the mirror told him, pointing to his pack.

  “Definitely crazy,” he repeated, then headed for the stairs.

  His father had already left for work. Professor Biggins had an 8:00 a.m. class on early American history, teaching college kids why grown men wearing powdered wigs should be considered heroes. His mother was fighting with the toaster, trying to pry out a bagel that it had swallowed whole and wouldn’t let go of. Bryan glanced in the hallway mirror, but the words didn’t appear again. Maybe he had just imagined them, too.

  “Mom, do you notice anything . . . different about me today?”

  Bryan looked around the kitchen, making sure nothing else was flashing, counting down, asking him for money. Everything looked normal. His mother afforded him a quick once-over.

  “You need a haircut,” she said. Then she returned to her battle, turning the toaster upside down and shaking it.

  “No. I mean anything . . . strange. Like blue writing or flashing lights or anything.”

  She turned and stared at him, the half-burned bagel in one hand, the toaster in the other. She suddenly looked distressed. Beyond burned-bagel distressed. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “I don’t know. Do I look sick?” He didn’t feel sick. He just felt . . . disoriented. He wished he hadn’t said anything. His mother was the type A of the family. Prone to panic. She threw the maligned bagel into the trash, then came up behind him and put her wrist to his forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Were you up late again last night?”

  He didn’t see the point in lying to her. Of course, he didn’t see the point in telling the whole truth, either. That’s just how you handled your parents. “Yeah, a little.”

  “Well, maybe if you eat something, you’ll feel better.” She handed him an untoasted bagel—at least it wasn’t frozen—and a glass of orange juice. He finished the juice in four swallows. Then nearly dropped the glass, his hands suddenly shaking. Flashing in front of him, so quickly that he barely had time to register it, was another message.

  +1 FORTITUDE.

  He looked down at his empty glass, then over to his mother.

  “Did you just see that?”

  “Did I see what, dear?”

  It was gone. There was nothing for Bryan to point to. She stared at him, clearly concerned again. In a moment she would be taking his temperature and then hauling him off to the MinuteClinic. That sounded like even less fun than school.

  “Nothing,” he said, then looked at the clock on the microwave. Somehow it was already 7:39. “I’m going to be late again.” He stuffed his bagel in the front pocket of his Burdensome Bag of Knowledge and moved toward the door.

  “Listen. I won’t be home until late tonight, so you and Dad are on your own for dinner.”

  Bryan nodded distractedly, kicking the door open with a Boot of Average Walking Speed.

  “But call me if you feel like something’s wrong, like if you get sick or something. I’ll come and get you.”

  If he felt like something was wrong.

  “I’m fine, Ma,” he said as he left, letting the screen door bang closed behind him. But that was just to keep her from worrying. It wasn’t even close to the truth.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  7:42 a.m.

  NEED FOR TEN-SPEED

  Riding out of his neighborhood and onto the main road that would take him to school, Bryan considered his morning so far. The little blue messages. The numbers. The slot in the alarm clock.

  Insert coin to continue. He had heard that phrase before, though he had never actually seen it anywhere. Not until this morning. His father had told him about growing up spending his Saturdays in video game arcades, standing in front of boxes taller than him with stupid names like Dig Dug and Galaga—long before kids carried a hundred games in their hip pockets. Back when arcade-style games cost only a quarter, gas cost a dollar, and people wrote letters in something called cursive, mailed with something called stamps. Of course, none of that explained why Bryan had had to put a quarter into his alarm clock just to get out of bed this morning.

  Maybe he really was just imagining things. Yesterday had been rough. He had a lot on his mind. A little hallucination wasn’t completely out of the ordinary, was it? His mother always said he had a big imagination. And his great-grandmother used to see things all the time—fairies, angels, UFOs—except according to everyone else in the family, she was completely off her rocker. Or it could be hormones. According to the “life skills” coaches that had come to their school at the start of the year, hormones messed with the brain of every kid in middle school, leading to countless psychological changes and considerably more armpit hair. Surely they could be to blame for a little morning craziness. And hadn’t he spied his very first chest hair just yesterday? And the zit on his shoulder? It was all chemical.

  Bryan almost had himself convinced when a man on a bike passed him on the left, dressed in one of those form-hugging blue suits with yellow stripes and a neon-blue helmet to match. As he passed, Bryan thought he saw the biker pump his fist, as if passing a twelve-year-old kid meandering his way to school was some real accomplishment. Bryan realized he was pedaling awfully slowly, lost in thought, and quickened his pace. He didn’t want to be late for school again. Certainly not for math.

  Another biker came up on Bryan’s left, moving just as quickly as the first, dressed like a cardinal in flame-red Lycra, her hair flapping behind her, her eyes masked by sunglasses. As she passed, she actually bumped Bryan a little, her legs brushing up against his, knocking him off balance. He swerved out into the road for a split second before righting himself.

  “Hey, watch it!” Bryan shouted. He wasn’t prone to shouting at adults, but the woman had nearly bowled him over. He had been biking this route for weeks now and never had a problem before. In fact, he seldom ever saw any other bikers on the road at this hour, and now there were two. Bryan looked behind him.

  There were so many more than two.

  There were at least a dozen more bikers behind him, coming up quickly. Somehow Bryan had found himself in the middle of a high-speed race down Mount Comfort Road. He looked toward the sidewalk, t
hinking of just getting out of the way and letting the other bikers pass, but the sidewalk was narrow, less than half the size of the bike lane, and every other driveway held a parked car blocking the way. He could stop and let everyone pass, but he was already late.

  So instead he started pedaling faster, legs churning, trying to stay ahead of the rest of the pack. He glanced behind him again. The flock of riders was gaining. They all wore helmets and sunglasses, looking eerily similar in their synthetic suits, like a posse of neon-clad, bicycle-riding CIA agents determined to hunt him down. In a matter of seconds they were on him. One passed on the left and quickly cut in front of Bryan, making him veer right into the curb, his backpack shifting, nearly causing him to topple over again. He made a quick adjustment and got back on course as two others passed him on either side, bent over their handlebars, focused only on the path ahead.

  “Seriously, people!” Bryan shouted. But either they couldn’t hear him or they were ignoring him. In fact, the two that had just passed him sideswiped each other, colliding, it seemed, on purpose. Their front wheels crashed, handlebars seeming to tangle, before they finally pulled away, one of them hopping the curb and plowing into a mailbox, raising his fist in anger. Bryan considered stopping to make sure the rider was all right, when he felt something bump him from behind.

  He turned to see a large man barely contained in a clingy red-and-blue suit, looking like an overweight Spider-Man, nudging Bryan’s back tire with his front. The man had a mustache that stretched beyond the perimeter of his cheeks, curling up at the ends. He was holding on to the handlebar with one hand. The other was holding a banana. An actual banana. He nosed into Bryan’s back side again, causing him to teeter.