by James Frey
Kala spits and looks at Christopher. “Did you do that?” she demands, pointing at the spasming boy.
Christopher is glowering at the man with the broken face. “He deserved it!”
Kala shakes her head and points at the writhing boy. “No. That.”
Christopher sees him. “No.”
“Who did?”
“It wasn’t you?”
Kala steps past her assailants and grabs Christopher by the arm—he is strong; I have underestimated him—and leads him toward their seats. She looks left and sees the open window.
The girl with the red hair is gone.
HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT
Church of the Covenant, Kingdom of Aksum, Northern Ethiopia
Hilal kneels on the church’s roof. He has been kneeling there for 9,466 seconds. He has contemplated his clue, the simple circle.
Everything.
Nothing.
A circle of stone.
A planet.
An orbit.
A beginning.
An end.
Pi.
3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679821480865132823066470938446095505822317253594081284811174502841027019385211055596446229489549303819644288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091456485669234603486104543266482133936072602491 . . .
No.
Not pi.
Something simpler.
He contemplates the being’s words. The first move is essential.
Nothing decides everything. The future is unwritten. What will be will be.
The first move is essential.
The first move.
The key.
Earth Key.
The first object of Endgame.
Here.
On Earth.
Placed eons ago by one like kepler 22b. Placed at one of their ancient meeting points. A place of significance.
Earth Key.
What does a key do?
It unlocks.
Opens.
Starts.
Nothing decides everything.
The future is unwritten.
A circle.
A circle of stone.
A disk like the one the Olmec carried from the Calling.
Zero.
A simple circle.
Outside, nothing.
Inside, nothing.
Hilal places his hands on his knees. The world turns around him. He feels centered, at peace. His heart brims with hope. He hears the atoms of the stone hard beneath his knees urging themselves together. Feels the breath of the cosmos. Tastes the ash of the end. Senses the neutrinos and the dark matter binding, rides the continuum. Hears the low, barely perceptible hiss of the Uroboros, the consuming hum of creation.
He hears those like kepler 22b discussing, watching, judging this game of games.
They made us human.
Looked into the eyes of an animal and gave us perception.
Plucked us from Eden and taught us love and lust and hate and trust and betrayal. All of it. Showed us how to manipulate and form. How to bow down, and pray, and plead, and listen.
They made us.
Everything and nothing.
The first move is essential.
A circle.
A stone circle.
Too many on Earth to choose from.
They made us.
They control something. Not everything. Not nothing.
Hilal’s eyes shoot open.
The first move is essential.
The future is unwritten.
The Event is coming.
It is part of Endgame.
The reason for it, the beginning, middle, and end.
Hilal sees, smiles, stands.
Hilal knows.
Hilal understands.
CHIYOKO TAKEDA
Bardi Turkish Tour Bus, Rooftop, on the D400 3.1349 km from Kzltepe, Turkey
Chiyoko lies flat on top of the bus and waits for it to stop. When it does, she grabs the side and slips to the ground. She lies on her chest on the shoulder of the road and waits. She can hear the bus driver shouting.
She sees Kala’s and the American’s feet as they scramble off the bus and flag a car. A sympathetic driver slows for them. Seconds later, the driver is on his back in the dirt.
“Get in!” Kala shouts at Christopher.
The American does as he’s told. The man whose car is getting jacked stands up and yells as Kala puts the car in gear and tears off. Other people start to get off the bus too. They want to see everything so they can tell their friends later. Film it, tweet it, post it, share it.
Chiyoko cannot let them get away, but she will not risk stealing a car like the brash Sumerian. She stands and eases into the crowd around the door of the bus and makes her way back inside. No one pays her any mind, even with the red wig and the sunglasses. No one knows she played a part in the wild brawl. As she moves through the throng she pulls another straw from her small bag and places it on her tongue. When she sees the boy, his continued spasms drawing a small crowd, she exhales, and the next dart—the antidote—sails through the air, breezing by heads and shoulders. The dart looks like a small bug—no one notices. It hits the boy’s neck, and in a minute or two he’ll be fine.
Chiyoko sits in a nearby seat and waits for things to die down. After 10 minutes and much discussion the bus closes its door and the driver shakes his head and they take off down the road. No one wants to talk to the police, especially the men bloodied by Kala and the American. Not in this part of the country. There is partying to do. And dancing. And playing.
Chiyoko turns her music back on. She bounces her head.
She wants to keep Playing too.
SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC
Turkey-Iraq Border, Covert Peshmerga Checkpoint 4
Renzo drives Sarah and Jago through a secret one-lane earthen tunnel big enough for a truck convoy. It’s controlled by Kurdish fighters who don’t care for official borders. They reach a checkpoint at the end manned by a half dozen men in black fatigues carrying M4s, Kalashnikovs, and Colt service pistols. Renzo stops the car and gets out to speak with the man in charge. Jago sits in the front passenger seat. He has not spoken since Sarah called the Sumerian, since they learned that she is holding Christopher for ransom.
Sarah leans forward and puts her hand on Jago’s shoulder. He doesn’t move. Christopher is not with them yet, but his presence clouds the car, poisons the air around them. Sarah and Jago spent last night in each other’s arms, kissing, whispering, laughing, touching, playing. Two teenagers in the first stage, the delirious first stage, of falling in love. And for the first time since the meteors struck, for the first time since Endgame began, they forgot how they met, why they met, forgot the game they were Playing, which would determine the future of humanity, forgot everything and just loved each other.
Sarah heard the messages from Christopher and Kala this morning, and immediately called Kala back. Jago heard the call and knew what was going on. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t say anything. Now, in the car, Sarah reaches for his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
Jago casually pulls his hand away. “Sorry for what?”
“I don’t know what happened. I guess he tried to find me, and somehow found her.”
Jago snorts and stares straight ahead.
“We have to help him and send him home,” Sarah continues. “You know we’re not going to let her get the disk. It’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head. “Easier just not to go at all, hm?”
“I have to go. You know I do,” Sarah insists. “I would do the same for you.”
“You wouldn’t have to.”
“Jago,” Sarah says, and a chill goes through him at the way she says his name. “I’m asking for your help. Please.”
Jago looks over his shoulder at her. “You should let him die. There, I’ve helped.”
“No.”
“This boy is going to
get himself killed. Must have some serious death wish to try following you around. Best to just let the fool have his way.”
“I love him, Jago. Don’t you understand that?”
Jago smiles in a way that Sarah has never seen before. It’s the alpha male smile that he would flash on the streets of Juliaca. It’s an angry, painful-looking thing. It causes her to sit back.
“If you love him, then why were you with me last night?” he asks.
“Because I never thought I’d see him again,” she explains. “Because I thought that part of my life was over.”
“It is. Let him die.”
“I’m going to get him, and then send him home. If you don’t want to come, fine. Go your own way. But if you do, you’re one of them, the heartless killers, and I swear on everything and everyone I love that the next time I see you, I will end your life, and I won’t think twice while I do it.”
Jago laughs.
“You think it’s funny? You won’t be laughing as you take your last breath.”
He turns toward her.
“I was laughing because I want to hate you, but when you act all hard, and I know you can actually back it up, it makes me like you more.”
She smiles. “You just don’t want me gunning for you.”
Jago knows his pride should be hurt, like it was beneath the Terracotta Army when Sarah clearly outran him. She’s challenging him, pushing him. He shouldn’t be taking that from another Player. But, much to his chagrin, what Jago feels most is jealousy. Jealousy that this dumb non-Player has gotten Sarah’s attention.
“You don’t have to swear on your loved ones or whatever,” Jago says coolly. “I’m not heartless. I understand love is a strange, strange thing.”
“So you’ll go with me.”
“I’m going for the Sumerian,” he says. “She called me out before. I should’ve dealt with her then.”
“Uh-huh,” Sarah says, knowing that’s not the real reason Jago is going but glad that he is.
“When it’s done, you will send this silly boy home, right? And we get back to what we’re doing, yes?”
“Yes. It’s what’s best for everyone.”
Renzo approaches the car with a smile on his face. Five steel columns descend into the ground at the end of the tunnel, and two men work to raise a mesh wall of camouflage so that the car can pass into the Kurdish region of Turkey.
“You’re clear. Come, get out.” Renzo is smiling and holding a brown glass bottle and three small tea glasses. He passes out the glasses and pours a cloudy liquid into each one. He raises his glass high. They follow his lead.
“To friendship and death. To life and oblivion. To Endgame.”
“To Endgame,” Sarah and Jago say. They tap glasses and drink. The liquid tastes like spiked licorice. Sarah scowls, asks, “Ugh, what is this?”
“Arak. It is good, no?”
“No,” Sarah says, “it’s awful.”
Jago laughs. “I like it.”
Renzo nods at Jago and pours himself another, drinks, and throws his glass to the ground. Sarah and Jago do the same. Each glass explodes. Renzo hugs them, kisses them on their cheeks, grabs their shoulders, hugs them again. Before letting Sarah go he says, “Best of luck at the end of ends, but not too much luck.”
“If I can’t win, I’ll make sure Jago does.”
“What will be will be.”
She smiles, climbs into the passenger seat of the Peugeot. Renzo hugs Jago one last time and whispers in his ear, “Don’t be stupid and fall in love. Not until the end is past.”
“Too late for that,” Jago says.
Renzo smiles. “Then I’ll see you in hell, brother.”
“I don’t believe in hell.”
Renzo’s face darkens, and he takes a long pull straight from the bottle. “You will, Jago Tlaloc, Olmec Player of the 21st. You will.”
Gobekli Tepe.
Man’s first known temple, surrounded by barren fields as far as the eye can see. Discovered in 1993 by local shepherds, the complex had lain dormant, intentionally buried by some unknown culture for some unknown reason, for at least 15,000 years. Since its discovery, a mere 5 percent of it has been unearthed, and radiocarbon dating places its provenance in the 12th millennium BCE. This is before pottery, metallurgy, animal husbandry, agriculture, known writing systems, and the wheel. It predates by thousands of years the next comparable stonework structures concentrated in the Fertile Crescent to the south and east. Yet there it is, arriving out of the darkness of the last ice age as a complete mystery. It is a fully formed temple, a fully formed city, a vast array of sophisticated structures dozens of feet across consisting of multiple limestone monoliths, each cut to exact proportions, and each weighing between 10 and 20 tons. Some believe that the monoliths themselves, each one a single rectangular column capped by a 2nd rectangle balanced on top, are the representations of men or priests or gods.
Or perhaps they represent something—or someone—else.
No one knows who made it.
How it was made.
Why it was made.
No one knows what knowledge passed through the minds of its makers.
No one knows the extent of their enlightenment.
No one knows.
BAITSAKHAN, MACCABEE ADLAI
Açgözlü Akbaba Tapna, Temple of the Consuming Vulture, Turkey
Baitsakhan puts his hands on the dashboard of Maccabee’s Audi A8 and leans forward. “What the hell is this?”
“No idea.”
Jalair stops the car. It is nine p.m. and the sun is down. A cloudless purple sky stretches in every direction. They have seen nothing for miles. Only a few cars on the road going in the opposite direction. And now they have finally reached the ancient monument buried in the sand of southern Turkey, the ancient monument of Maccabee Adlai’s clue that they decided to investigate. Each of them—Maccabee, Baitsakhan, Jalair—expected to find a dark archeological site. At most, they expected a few security guards and maybe some students or professors camping out.
Instead, dozens of cars and five charter buses are parked in the lot. People their age mill around drinking and smoking. Some of the women are in head scarves, but for the most part everyone looks urban, modern, and free. Most people are wearing colorful glow-stick necklaces. Some are dressed up like club kids—spiked hair, baggy pants, elevator shoes, piercings, jewelry, lots of skin. Music booms from over the rolling hills. Blue, green, and purple lasers dance in the sky, strobing, streaking, sweeping.
“A party?” Baitsakhan asks humorlessly.
“Yes, I believe that’s what this is,” Maccabee says drily. I bet he’s never been to a party in his entire life.
“We came here because of your clue,” Baitsakhan hisses at Maccabee. “It better not be a waste of time.”
“You didn’t have any better ideas,” Maccabee snaps back.
They get out of the car. Maccabee unbuttons his shirt to the middle of his chest, revealing a long golden chain with a smooth silver sphere the size of a roulette ball weighing it down. He’s going to fit in perfectly. Baitsakhan and Jalair, who look like gypsies, couldn’t care less about their appearance. Maccabee approaches the closest group of partiers and, in perfect Turkish, asks where they can get some glow necklaces. The kids point over the rise of the hill. He asks how long the party’s been going, who’s DJing right now, if there have been any police or army guys, if everything is going well. He nods and slaps shoulders and breaks out a quick dance move. He high-fives the guys and turns back to Jalair and Baitsakhan. His smile melts once the revelers can’t see him.
“These morons call themselves Meteor Kids,” he says. “They’re here to, quote, ‘Celebrate the end where it all began.’”
“That’s funny,” Jalair says.
“What’s funny?” Baitsakhan asks.
“That they’re right,” Maccabee says. “It’s ironic.”
“I don’t get it,” Baitsakhan says.
Maccabee and Jalair share a l
ook. It is their first look of camaraderie. He’s so young, knows so little, believes he can simply kill his way through Endgame, Maccabee thinks. He will only be useful for as long as a closed fist can be useful.
Jalair opens the trunk and pushes aside a heavy piece of black canvas, and they tool up. Each conceals a pistol in his pants and extra clips, a knife. The blades are ancient and ornate and very sharp. Jalair snaps a leather whip to his belt. Baitsakhan slings a gun belt over his shoulder and across his chest. It has gas canisters and four grenades on it.
Maccabee looks at Baitsakhan. “Really? You look like you’re going to war.”
“These people all look like lunatics; they’re not gonna notice.”
Maccabee keeps his expression neutral. You’re the lunatic, he thinks. He wonders just how far he should take this alliance with the bloodthirsty brat.
Perhaps, just maybe, when he emerges from the Temple of the Consuming Vulture, he will do so alone.
KALA MOZAMI, CHRISTOPHER VANDERKAMP
Açgözlü Akbaba Tapna, Temple of the Consuming Vulture, Turkey
Christopher and Kala stand in a stone circle 12 feet across. The circle is in a depression. Six monoliths, arranged at even intervals around the circle, tower over them like sentinels from the ancient world. Carved into the stones are clear, concise reliefs of snakes, birds, cats, lizards, scorpions. Part of the circle is still buried in red earth. A 7th monolith is toppled over and half covered by a mound of untouched sand.
Kala, toting a small flashlight, closely inspects this last giant hunk of stone.
Christopher is awestruck. “Are we really supposed to be in here?” They cleared a low wire fence and removed a laughable wooden barrier at the edge of the hole before jumping in.
“There are no rules.”
“What is this place?”
“A temple.”
Christopher’s brow furrows. “What kind of temple?”
“A temple to life and power,” Kala answers, distracted. She scratches at the ground with her hands, starts digging.