The God Game

by Danny Tobey

  Charlie sighed. “Fuck.”

  “This is what we wanted.”

  Charlie shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  He was about to click the word invitation, but Peter stopped him. “Forward the link to your laptop. I’m sick of this small-screen business. Let’s immerse.”

  “Okay.” Charlie copied the link and sent it to his email. He got on his computer and hovered over the link on the larger screen. “Satisfied? Acoustics okay? Need some popcorn?”

  “Quit dragging it out, man!”

  “But you’re the one—”

  Peter reached over and hit Enter.

  The word invitation pulsed, the hyperlink activated.

  And then …

  For a moment, the screen went black.

  Then the music started playing, a little MIDI version of the carnival song that always played outside the main tent while the barker drew you in: Step right up, folks. Right this way!

  It came through Charlie’s gaming speakers, wireless on either side of the laptop, filling the room.

  On the screen, red curtains drew apart, and a bobbleheaded cartoonish man was there: Donald Trump in an Uncle Sam suit and top hat. He waved, his mouth moving up and down, the jaw jerking open and shut. No sound came from his mouth, but white text appeared against the black background below him, one letter tapped out at a time with a little typewriter click and ding.

  You are invited!

  Ding! The mouth moved up and down, like a ventriloquist’s dummy’s.

  COme inside and play with G.O.D.

  Ding!

  Bring your friends!

  It’s fun!

  But remember the rules. Win and ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE.TM Lose, you die!

  :)

  It’s ur choice. Free will!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Trump was wearing red, white, and, blue pants with suspenders. Now his cartoon arm jerked forward, pointing at them.

  We Want You!

  Trump changed—his face morphed into a lizard, still wearing his Uncle Sam hat. The big-top tent flashing behind it, the lizard said:

  Click here!

  You have 2 say yesss.

  Charlie and Peter looked at each other.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I have no idea,” Peter said. “But I want to go inside!”

  “Um, ‘Win and your dreams come true. Lose, you die?’ No thanks.”

  “Aw, come on. You’re willing to give Mary a ride to the Grove and risk getting your ass kicked by fourteen actual, real-life ’roid cases, but you won’t play a computer game?”

  “A computer game on a messed-up site that’s joking about killing us?”

  “Who said anything about killing? They just said you die.”

  “Play your own stupid game.”

  “It’s just a joke,” Peter said. “They’re messing around.”

  “Who is they anyway? Who made this thing?”

  “I told you, I have no idea. People just talk about it a lot online.”

  “So … North Koreans?”

  “Ha, ha. You should click yes!”

  “You click yes.”

  “You just want to live long enough to get to third base with Mary.”

  “Screw you.”

  “I don’t think you’ll live that long even if you don’t play!”

  “Fuck off!” Charlie studied the animation. “Doesn’t it bother you at all that they know what we did?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A Trump cartoon. A shape-shifting lizard. We hacked that sign, like, an hour ago. They only told us to hack it, not what to say. How did they know so quickly? And turn it into an animation?”

  “It’s a pretty shitty animation. How long would it take you?”

  “That’s not my point. There’s not even a news story yet. Are they watching us?”

  “What can I say, they like our style. So, cool. It’s a hat tip. Vindicators rock.”

  Then it dawned on Charlie. The Vindicators had done this together. “Do you think the whole group got the invitation?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. We were all there.”

  Charlie group-texted them.

  “What are you doing?” Peter asked.

  “They don’t even know about the website or the God bot or anything. We dragged them into this. We should give them a heads-up and decide on this together. Maybe you can ask your online buddies what the hell the game is, anyway.”

  “That’s fair. But what if they take back the invitation because we waited?”

  “Then they didn’t want us that badly to start with.”

  “Huh. That’s good logic. You have a lot of experience with rejection.”

  Charlie punched Peter’s arm—“True”—then sent the text:

  Did you get a crazy message with an “invitation”? Don’t click on it yet. Will explain.

  Peter added to the string:

  Tomorrow—midnight. Tech Lab. Don’t be late!

  He added a skull-and-crossbones emoji.

  Charlie raised his eyebrow at him.

  “Ya gotta have a little style,” Peter said. “To keep the people coming back.”

  Charlie saw the time. “I have to go. That means you have to go.”

  Peter made a show of going toward the door. “Oh, yeah. Your dad hates me.” He went to the window.

  “I’ll go your way. Minimizes questions.”

  They crawled out the window. The night was crisp and the air smelled clean and fresh. Fall air. They went down the trellis and landed with a soft thud in the dirt of the garden. They saw Charlie’s dad through the downstairs window, working at the kitchen table, his back to them.

  “Oh, crap.” Peter patted his back pocket. “I left my joint upstairs.”

  “Get that shit out of my room.”

  Peter went back up the trellis and slipped through the window.

  Charlie glanced back at his dad. Charlie wondered what was he working on, late at night, by himself at the table? His accounting work—the work he’d always found boring and just a means to an end that all came to nothing anyway when his wife died and his only child went off the deep end? Charlie’s dad’s shoulders slumped in a way that had only started after Charlie’s mom was diagnosed.

  Peter came back down and patted his pocket. “Got it.” He got into Charlie’s dad’s car with Charlie.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Going with you to the Grove!”

  “Um, I don’t think so. I’m giving Mary a ride.”

  “That’s why you need me. So I can bail you out when Tim tries to kick your ass.”

  “Out.”

  “Fine. Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I won’t.”

  Peter hopped out and gave a fake bow. “Then I bid you adieu.”

  “Yeah, okay. Enjoy your evening.”

  “And you yours, good sir!”

  Charlie put the car in gear and headed toward Mary and the Grove beyond.

  8   THE UNCANNY VALLEY

  Inside the ring of trees, the lights of parked cars sliced this way and that through the night, lighting the woods in spears of fluorescence.

  Mary led Charlie through the woods, giving no clue of her intentions.

  She had been silent most of the ride over, moving gracefully from her front porch into Charlie’s beat-up old family car, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if this weren’t unprecedented and inexplicable by any known rules of high school logic or primate mating rituals. We’re way past anthropology, Charlie thought. This is The Twilight Zone with hormones.

  At one point, she took his hand. It wasn’t flirtatious and it only lasted a moment, as she led him down a short drop, as if she could navigate the Grove in her sleep. She was just keeping him from tripping as they both ducked under a gnarled, low-hanging branch and down the rocky clumped-earth stairsteps, one two. Then she let go and all that was left was the tingling on his palm and fingers,
like an amputee mourning the loss of his hand.

  How did he suddenly find himself with the girl he’d loved since seventh grade? One who was never in his league, yet for whom he’d always harbored the illusion that deep down she had every reason to cross social barriers and know the real him? Did he dare allow himself to dream that after five years, countless student council meetings, even late nights working on class projects (sitting on her bed, door cracked per parental rules), suddenly now it was going to happen? In senior year, just as all were preparing to go their separate ways? And why not? Wouldn’t this be the time when things did go off the rails a little, loosen up, the freedom of never seeing half these people again just on the horizon? Wasn’t this the uncanny valley—a moment where things could suddenly follow new rules or no rules at all? Charlie had been in free fall for two years. Maybe he was about to fall into something.

  Mary was about to answer the question.

  They were steps from coming out into the clearing, where everyone was gathered, drinking and hanging out, some around a bonfire, others reclining on the hoods of cars, their engines running and music drifting out. But they were still shielded from sight by the last thick rows of trees around the clearing.

  Mary put a hand on Charlie’s chest to stop him from walking. She looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  “Oh.” It was the last thing he wanted to hear. I love you would have been nice. Take me now, heart slayer would have been fine, if a little medieval. But back to his mom, no. That was about the last thing he wanted to think about. He thought about it pretty much all the time. But here, in this clearing, the way the moon cast blue light down through the trees, for just a moment that lingering, needling pain in the pit of his stomach had gone away.

  Now it was back.

  “Thanks,” he said, thinking of some way to change the subject.

  “I told you that a year ago. Do you remember?”

  Of course I remember, Charlie wanted to say. It had been the most humiliating moment of his life. Here he was, a grieving junior at his mother’s funeral, after a year of hell. Suddenly, the most beautiful girl in school shows up at the funeral, standing in the back. Why? Charlie found her after the funeral, in a quiet long hallway of the church, tried to thank her, but couldn’t get the words out. She’d said she was sorry, and Charlie misunderstood the situation—what the hell was she doing there anyway, didn’t it have to be a sign she’d felt the same all along?—and kissed her. It was clumsy, gentle. She went in to hug him, and he misunderstood and placed his lips gently on hers. The electricity was unbearable. Her lips were softer than he could ever imagine. She lingered for a second, then pulled back and said, also gently, which was worse, “No, no”—not a command, but surprised. Like Oh, no, you poor sweet puppy. He’d been delirious with grief and now shame. “I’m sorry,” he’d mumbled, and she’d said, “That’s okay,” and that was the last they spoke for a year, while she’d gone on to live her life and Charlie had circled the drain.

  And now she was bringing it up. Charlie noticed her fumbling with a new bracelet on her wrist. It looked expensive. Like more than he could ever afford.

  “That’s nice,” he said, looking at it, and she winced, as if he’d poked her in the gut with a sharp finger.

  “Do you remember my brother?”

  “I knew who he was,” Charlie said. “I didn’t really know him.”

  “He was amazing.”

  That was one word for Brian Clark. He was an older, male version of Mary. Perfect. Legendary.

  Brian’s car had been smashed head-on by a drunk driver his senior year, the year before he would’ve left on a full ride to A&M. Now Mary was president of her school’s chapter of SADD. She had founded the club in Brian’s honor.

  “The first year was the worst. It gets easier.”

  “I know,” Charlie said, because he was supposed to say that.

  She fingered the bracelet again. “Do you ever feel like your whole life is a lie?”

  “Not a lie. Just a mess. Do you?”

  She turned the bracelet absently, then let her arms drop. “Something about senior year. You feel like everything could change. It will change. There’s a possibility for a new life. Do you feel that way?”

  “I used to. I used to want to go to Harvard. My friend Vanhi and I had a pact that we’d both apply and go there together. I know it’s crazy. You can’t just want one school, especially a school like that. I kept telling Vanhi that. But now it doesn’t matter. I doubt I could get in if I wanted to. I let everything go.”

  The sky was a deep purple, the color of clouds reflecting light pollution. But the woods themselves were dark and shrouded.

  In elementary school, Mary was precocious, popular, spunky. In middle school, she was tall, athletic, quiet. In high school, she was dazzling, better than the people she surrounded herself with. Charlie had run for student council just to be near her. He’d loved her for most of his life.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Mary said, taking his hand.

  Was he supposed to kiss her? Good God, the image of the fumbled kiss from the funeral came back. No fucking way would he make that mistake twice. The shame would literally crack him.

  “Why do you care?” he asked instead.

  There it was. It just popped out. The emotion just bubbled up and slipped past him.

  She looked taken aback. “We’re friends.”

  “Are we?”

  “You don’t want to be my friend?”

  “No,” Charlie said, not in a mean way, but in a way that was clear.

  She looked at him with wide eyes. “I have to go.”

  He realized she was still holding his hand. He closed his fingers, gently tighter. “Don’t.”

  “If Tim sees you…”

  “Sees me what?”

  “Charlie, you don’t know him like I do.”

  “I thought he wasn’t here.”

  “He’s not. But his friends…”

  “You told him I was giving you a ride?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Why did you ask me?”

  She leaned in and kissed him.

  It was just a moment.

  Then she pulled away. She pushed against his chest: Don’t follow.

  Without saying anything, she slipped back and through the trees, into the clearing as if she had just arrived alone. Charlie was left there, staring, lost in the shadows, watching a crowd of students have a life as distant and untouchable as a television show.

  * * *

  At the same time, miles away, Charlie’s computer screen showed a red circus tent, the curtains now open. It said:

  Invitation accepted.

  9   THE SINNER

  Turner High School was not known for safety, but its various constituencies—gangs, rich kids, honors students, drama geeks, losers—all coexisted essentially peacefully. The gangs beat up the gangs, the rich kids spent their money, the drama kids put on Our Town and wrote poems about despair, the losers smoked weed on the Embankment, and the public school thrummed along like the giant, unruly beast that it was.

  Charlie wasn’t sure where Peter got his pot, but knew a drug dealer was at Turner, maybe more than one, who serviced the various groups. It wasn’t that the rich kids didn’t smoke weed or take pills. They just did it in the safety of their parents’ mansions instead of out in the open on the grassy banks behind the fields and temporary buildings. The Embankment offered relative obscurity from school officials and campus officers. It wasn’t like they didn’t know about the Embankment. It was just that they could ignore it, for the most part, a few symbolic stings aside. You couldn’t arrest everyone, all the time.

  On the way there, Charlie cut through the portables. It was out of his way, but something had been bothering him. That graffiti, All Must … That bullshit explanation. Song lyrics? Come on. Alex played guitar in his room, mostly Kurt Cobain covers. Badly. But still …

  There was the graffiti. Still unfi
nished. And there was Alex, sitting alone on the steps of Portable B, reading Cat’s Cradle. He’d torn through most of the book since yesterday.

  “Hey, Charlie.”

  “Hey, Alex.”

  “Cool prank yesterday.”

  “Yeah. Epic. One for the history books.”

  Alex shrugged.

  “Are you coming tonight? To Tech Lab.”

  “I guess so,” Alex said. “Midnight?”

  “Yeah, that was Peter’s idea. Of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Listen, did you get a weird text, with a link? Like an invitation?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” That was a fulsome answer for Alex.

  Charlie nodded. So God (or G.O.D., he guessed it was now) did know they all hacked the sign together? How would it know that? Were they really being watched that closely?

  “You didn’t click that link, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Don’t do it yet.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Peter’s digging into it.”

  Alex frowned.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure,” Alex said.

  When they started the Vindicators, Alex was the quietest of the group. The most outcast. But he was always in the Tech Lab. He’d found it before the rest of them. He’d eat his lunch and surf the Web or pay MOBAs. When the rest of them gelled together, it just made sense that Alex would be swept up into the group with them. But it was easier back then, when he was harmless weird Alex.

  “I know what you think,” Alex said suddenly. He almost sounded angry.

  “About what?”

  “Me.”

  “Alex, what are you talking about it?”

  “I can feel it. You don’t have to say it. All of you.”

  “The Vindicators?”

  “You don’t want me in the group. Not anymore.”

  Charlie wanted to say that was not true. But he was a shitty liar. Harmless weird Alex had given way to off-the-rails troubled Alex. Was there something more? Was Alex on the verge of something worse, something unnamed and deep, that Charlie just couldn’t deal with right now? That did make him a shitty friend, he realized—maybe Vanhi was right—but he felt the truth like a bubble squeezing into his own orbit, and it was all too much. Kenny was freaked out by new Alex. Peter was no saint, but he had that Teflon quality, and Charlie felt safe around him, even when they were getting in trouble. Peter knew when to push and when to pull back. He was rich, so he’d be okay in the end. Alex felt like a drowning man who had thrown himself in a lake and would pull anyone trying to save him down with him.