by James Frey
Chiyoko bows again. When she straightens, she sees some of the lights on the HUD creeping along the bottom of the windshield. She points at them as if to ask what they are.
“Oh, you’re in for a treat,” Sarah says, piloting the car backward at 50 mph.
“Yeah,” says Jago. “We’re full of surprises.”
Sarah yanks the parking brake and they spin around. She throws the car directly into 2nd gear and drops the pedal and they’re off. She extinguishes the headlights as they hit the pavement. As soon as she does, the inside of the windshield transforms. They can see everything in front of them. The road, the sky, all of the stars above. The brake lights of the unsuspecting Audi. As Chiyoko looks around, she sees that all of the windows are night-vision equipped. She blows out a long ascending whistle that conveys her amazement.
“I thought you were a mute,” Jago quips.
Chiyoko reaches into her pocket, producing her cell phone. She begins typing frantically. When she’s finished, she hands the phone to Jago, who reads the message.
“Listen to this,” he says to Sarah. “It’s Maccabee and Baitsakhan we’re chasing. They’ve got your . . . friend. He’s got an injured leg. Chiyoko here promises, on her honor, to help us and not kill us—so long as we let her examine the disk afterward.” Jago narrows his eyes at Chiyoko. “I don’t know.”
Chiyoko snatches back her phone and types another message.
“Well?” Sarah asks.
“She says her line used to care for the disks. Says she knows stuff about them.” Jago eyeballs Chiyoko. “You going to share some of that knowledge, shy girl?”
Chiyoko nods grudgingly.
“Then I guess we’ve got a deal.” Jago reaches under his seat. “You want a gun?”
Chiyoko claps once.
Jago asks, “Twice for no?”
She claps once again.
“Good enough,” Jago says. He passes her a two-tone sterling-and-black Browning Pro-40. She grabs the stock.
“On your sword and honor, right?” Jago asks before releasing the barrel. “You aren’t gonna betray us.”
Chiyoko gives him a curt nod.
He lets go. “All right. In case you forget, I’ve got this.” He pats the M4, the one with the grenade launcher mounted under the barrel.
Sarah drops the 307 into 4th gear and they go from 94 to 114 in two seconds. The Audi is fast, but the crappy-looking 307 is faster. They snake along the road; all the turns are tight, fast, and low, the wheels screeching, the engine roaring. Sarah’s an expert driver, and within a minute they’re 50 m behind the A8. And judging by the casual driving of their targets, still undetected.
Chiyoko rolls down her window and takes aim. Jago rolls down his window and braces the M4 on the side mirror.
“Ready?” he asks.
Chiyoko nods.
“Fire!”
Chiyoko fires three rounds and Jago a short burst. The slugs hit the Audi and glance off it in sparks and flares.
“Bulletproof!” Sarah exclaims.
The Audi swerves and accelerates. Chiyoko fires two shots at the tires, but they appear to be solid rubber. Sarah takes a hand from the wheel and draws a square on the windshield with her finger; the image zooms in. She can see Christopher whipping around and gazing with fear out the back window.
“Be careful!” she shouts.
“What? It’s bulletproof, right?” Jago says, squeezing off another round.
“Jago . . .” Sarah says quietly. “Please.”
Jago pulls his gun inside and rolls up the window. “Eh, it was worth a try.”
The Audi swerves as its occupants try to figure out who’s attacking them. Sarah clicks the 307 into 6th gear and pulls alongside the sedan. Shifting across the backseat, Chiyoko finds herself right alongside Maccabee. He cracks his window and Baitsakhan reaches across, sticks out a pistol, and fires five rounds at the 307. Chiyoko doesn’t even flinch as the bullets explode on the window in front of her.
Jago jabs his finger at his window and says, “Yeah, bitches, we’re bulletproof too!” Sarah lets up on the gas and they drop a half car length behind the Audi.
“Well, what now?” Jago asks, spinning to Chiyoko.
She motions for her sword. He frowns but hands it over. Before he can even ask what Chiyoko wants the blade for, she has rolled her window back down and is climbing out of the car, onto the roof.
Jago looks at Sarah, wide-eyed. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
Sarah rolls the window back up and concentrates on keeping the car straight. As Chiyoko steadies herself on top of the 307, Baitsakhan lobs a grenade toward her. She casually slaps it out of the air, redirecting it to the shoulder, where it explodes on the side of the road, doing no harm. “¡Dios mío!” Jago exclaims in awe.
Chiyoko’s face appears in the windshield and she motions at the Audi.
“Get closer,” Jago says.
“Trying.”
A turn is coming as Sarah edges to within a couple of feet of the Audi. They are going 85 mph.
And then Chiyoko jumps.
She lands flat on the roof and reaches for the edges to steady herself. Sarah drops the 307 behind the Audi.
Baitsakhan opens the passenger window and sticks out a pistol, but Chiyoko kicks it out of his hand. The gun sails into the air and Baitsakhan’s hand disappears back into the car. Chiyoko draws the wakizashi and drives it straight down into the rubber seal between the rear window and the roof of the car. It goes to the hilt and she slides it along the window and the rubber pops out. She pries the glass outward and, in a single piece, it comes free, sliding across the highway behind them.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Sarah says.
Christopher—confused, scared, shocked—gapes out the rear window.
And sees Sarah.
Chiyoko reaches into the car and grabs Christopher by the arm and hauls him onto the trunk, where he is out of Baitsakhan’s reach. Then she motions for Sarah to come closer.
Sarah urges the 307 right behind the Audi’s bumper. Maccabee passes Baitsakhan a new pistol just before Chiyoko picks up Christopher and vaults onto the hood of the 307. Christopher, clinging to the edge of the hood, is white as a sheet.
Sarah yells “Hold on!” and slams the brake. As they start to slow down, Baitsakhan shoots. A bullet grazes the back of Chiyoko’s head; another hits Christopher in the leg.
Jago arms the grenade launcher of the M4, leans out the back window, and pulls the trigger.
“Adios, amigos.”
The grenade streaks through the air. Before it reaches the sedan, the car’s brake lights flare and front doors fly open. The grenade sails through the back window and explodes. Sarah eases the 307 to a stop. Chiyoko helps Christopher off the hood. Jago opens one of the rear doors. Christopher and Chiyoko fall into the backseat, and Chiyoko closes the door. Sarah puts the car back in gear and takes off.
“Everyone all right?” Sarah asks.
Chiyoko touches the back of her head. Her fingers come back bloody, but the cut isn’t deep. She flashes Jago a thumbs-up. Christopher, who’s had too much for one night, is passed out. But the wound on his calf doesn’t look like it’s bad.
“His leg’s grazed,” Jago says. “They look fine to me.”
Sarah lets out a relieved sigh. “Chiyoko, that was—”
“Unreal, I’ve never seen anything like that,” Jago interrupts.
Chiyoko shakes her head as if to dismiss them, makes a drinking motion. Sarah takes a bottle of water from the center console and hands it to her. Chiyoko opens it up and dumps it over Christopher’s head. He wakes with a start, pushing away from Chiyoko, gazing dazedly around the car.
“Sarah—it’s you—holy shit—who are these people?”
“Players, Christopher. This is Jago.” Jago looks at him, nods slightly. “The crazy-ass ninja is Chiyoko. This is Endgame, and you shouldn’t be here. I want you home, where it’s safe.”
She wants it to sound like a lecture, but Sa
rah can barely keep a straight face. Her boyfriend just chased her halfway around the world and, without any formal training, took on Players. Sure, he needed rescuing, but it’s still pretty awesome. Christopher smiles at her eyes in the mirror. She smiles back. Their love is still alive, still strong, still there.
I found her, Christopher thinks. It will be better now. I can deal. I found her.
“Rest up, amigo,” Jago says. Sarah hears the tension in that last word and doesn’t like it. “We need to put some miles behind us and then we’ll have a look at that leg.”
“All right,” Christopher says, still staring at Sarah in the mirror.
Jago shakes a bottle of pills. “Take one of these.”
“What is it?” Christopher asks.
“Oxy,” Jago says.
Christopher takes the pill and within minutes is asleep. Sarah watches him in the mirror as she drives. She makes no effort to calm her heart, or slow it down. It’s beating fast because of Christopher and she likes it. She watches him and doesn’t think of Jago, or of Endgame.
I love you, Christopher, but you should have listened to me, she thinks.
Fear creeps into her. He could get hurt again. Only next time it could be worse.
She looks back to the road.
You should have listened.
Hadean,lxviii Archean, Proterozoic, Paleozoic, Mesozoic, Cenozoic, Anthropozoic.
BAITSAKHAN, MACCABEE ADLAI
The anlurfa Mardin Yolu, Route D400
Maccabee and Baitsakhan lie in the dirt on the side of the road. Jumping from a car going 53 mph hurt. A lot. Maccabee has broken his nose for the 6th time in his life, as well as dislocated a finger, bruised several ribs, and suffered dozens of scrapes and cuts. He sits, takes the bridge of his nose between the heels of his hands, and pops it into place. He clears his throat and spits a wad of blood on the ground.
“Baitsakhan?”
“Yes.” Baitsakhan is 30 feet to Maccabee’s left, also just sitting up. He has a cracked right patella, a gash on his left forearm, a sprained wrist. “I’m here.”
“You in one piece?”
“More or less.” He pulls a canister from his belt of explosives and unscrews it. He takes out four iodine swabs and a suture kit. “Still have your gun?”
Maccabee touches the grip. “Yes.”
“Can you get us a ride? I have to stitch a cut.”
Maccabee rolls his eyes. “Sure. And I’m in one piece too. Thanks for asking.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You have the orb—Earth Key?”
“Of course. I’ll never let it go.”
“Good.” Maccabee stands. His body creaks. He straightens his back. Vertebra click. “That was not fun.”
Baitsakhan has a flashlight between his teeth. “No.” The cut on his arm is deep and filthy, four inches long. He takes another canister from his belt and unscrews it and pours the liquid over the cut.
Alcohol.
Burns.
He doesn’t cringe or whine. He tears the swab package open and runs the iodine along the cut, under the flesh, working it in and around. Fresh blood dribbles into the dirt.
Maccabee turns to the road and starts walking. “Sorry about Jalair,” he says over his shoulder.
Baitsakhan doesn’t respond.
Maccabee walks up the embankment. The Audi is 100 feet up the road, completely ablaze. Nothing is salvageable from it. He pulls out his gun, flips the safety off.
Baitsakhan runs the curved needle through his flesh, working quickly. He still doesn’t make a sound. He ties off the suture, rips off a piece of his shirt, wraps it around the wound. He stands, walks toward Maccabee. “Anything?”
“Not yet.”
They wait for several minutes. Baitsakhan raises his wounded arm and points. “There.”
“Get down,” Maccabee says.
Baitsakhan eases his battered body to the ground. Maccabee steps into the middle of the road. A pair of motorcycles approaches. Fast motorcycles. The headlights hit Maccabee, and he waves his hands, feigns a look of fear. Neither of the bikes slows down. They are 200 feet away and closing.
“Not the Good Samaritan types,” grumbles Maccabee.
So he raises his gun.
One head shot and the bike on the left goes down and skids over the road. The other bike slams the brakes and swerves, but Maccabee sights the driver and pulls the trigger and it goes down as well.
Baitsakhan stands. “Well done.”
Maccabee blows over the muzzle and smiles. They each walk toward a bike. Baitsakhan reaches his first. The driver is dead, but the passenger, a young woman, is not. Baitsakhan thinks he saw them at the party but doesn’t care. He leans over her. She’s scared.
“Devil!” she hisses in Turkish.
Baitsakhan reaches down and takes her quavering head in both of his hands and snaps her neck. He pulls her and her boyfriend off the bike and lifts it up. He looks over at Maccabee as he’s finishing off his driver with a final shot. They bring the bikes to the middle of the road, rev the engines. Maccabee shouts, “Let me see the key!”
Baitsakhan removes it from the inside of his jacket and holds it up.
“What do you say we go celebrate a little?”
“Celebrate?” Baitsakhan asks, as if it’s some kind of alien concept.
He thinks about his brother and his cousins, the blood that’s been spilled. They would want Baitsakhan to enjoy this victory. He nods and works the orb back into his clothing. “Yes. Celebrate. I think we deserve it.”
SHARI CHOPRA
Chopra Residence, Gangtok, Sikkim, India
Shari tries not to think about Baitsakhan. She is home, and it is peaceful, just the way she left it before the Calling. She thinks she’ll stay here for a while and rest. But then she feels the ghostly numbness where her finger should be, and she thinks about hunting down the Donghu and killing him.
She has not made up her mind.
Shari is on one knee. Little Alice is sitting on the other. Her dark hair is in pigtails. Her eyes are big and wet, like smoothed river stones. Shari is hugging her daughter’s shoulders. Jamal is standing over them, beaming. Little Alice is holding one of Shari’s hands. “Where’s your finger?” Little Alice asks.
Shari shrugs. “I lost it.”
“How?”
“An accident.”
Little Alice is not a prospective Player. Jamal knows of Endgame—knows everything—but Little Alice knows nothing. Shari would like to keep it that way, but she knows she can’t. Not once the Event happens. Not once the world begins to end.
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes, my little pakora, it did.”
“How much?”
Shari releases her daughter’s body and stretches out her arms. She pulls her hands close together, so that only a few inches separate them. “Only this much,” Shari says.
“Oh.”
Jamal kneels. Shari puts her hands back out as far as they will go and says, “But being away from you hurt this much, meri jaan, this much.”
“Okay,” Little Alice says, smiling, and she bounces off Shari’s knee and runs away, down the grass lawn, toward a loitering peacock at the end of the garden. The southern face of Kanchenjunga looms over the hardy shrubs, its jagged peak white in the sun and blue in shadow. Jamal watches their daughter. He is two years older than Shari. “Where is your ring?” he asks quietly. For Shari, his voice is like a blanket and a warm fire and sweet milk all together.
“I lost it too,” Shari says matter-of-factly. “But I will get it back, my sweet. Even if I have to fight the god himself, I will get it back.”
Jamal puts a hand on his wife’s thigh. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“It won’t. A little monster masquerading as a boy has it. He will return it.”
“You’re going to chase him?”
Shari looks at Jamal. There is a darkness in her eyes that wasn’t there before the Calling. Gently, he puts a hand on her sh
oulder. “I don’t know yet,” she answers.
“Take some time,” Jamal says. “Stay with us for a while.”
Shari nods, watches her beautiful daughter running through the grass. Endgame is in motion. The Event will come soon. Perhaps before it does the other Players will come first, to hunt her, to hunt her family. She flexes her remaining fingers, thinking about how quickly everything can fall apart.
Later that night, after they’ve gone to bed, Shari wraps her fine hands around Little Alice’s slumbering neck and squeezes. Squeezes. Squeezes.
The girl’s eyes snap open. She smiles. Mouths, Mama. Cries tears of joy. Even as her body writhes and spasms and dies.
Shari holds on to the warm neck until the pulse stops. She lets go. Brushes the hair from her daughter’s face. Leans in and gives her a kiss.
She turns to her own bed. Jamal still sleeps. Shari looks to her hands and there it is. A knife from the kitchen. Shining steel. Bone handle. The one she uses to dice garlic and dhania. She puts the point over his heart. Waits. Waits. Waits.
Plunges.
The rich blood sprouts along the blade and Jamal looks at her and says, “Thank you, sweet.” As he dies, he reaches out his hand and takes hers and holds it until he can’t anymore. When she pulls the knife out of his chest, the ring that the Donghu stole comes with it.
Shari lifts it up. Looks at it. Licks off the blood. Swallows.
And then she is an elephant on a green expanse of grass and the stone circle is there before her, iconic and permanent. She bellows her grief, the sound reverberating off the stones.
A dream.
She sits bolt upright. Covered in sweat. Little Alice is crying in the bed next to theirs; Jamal is there, soothing her. The moonlight filters through the cool mountain air and into their cozy house.
This peace cannot last.
I must always keep a gun. A gun with three rounds in it.
She sees the old standing stones of her dream, placed by druids, and knows.
Earth Key is there.
I will not tell.
Another can have it.