The God Game

by Danny Tobey

  “Huh?”

  “I know you hate me. For Candace. For Columbia. Take me down. Leave the Vindicators out of it.”

  Eddie leaned back in his chair again and studied Kenny’s face with mild contempt. Eddie was loving every minute of this.

  “Tempting. Very tempting. But the story doesn’t sing without your little club.”

  Kenny felt his fists ball up. He reached into his shirt pocket and slipped on his Aziteks.

  He startled.

  The room was the same in front of him, except that Eddie’s eyes were blacked out, like two empty sockets.

  “Eddie, please. I don’t know what’s going to happen if you do this.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No. I honestly don’t know.”

  “My job is to tell the truth.” Eddie smiled.

  “And if it destroys me and my friends?”

  “Gravy.”

  Kenny nodded.

  Behind Eddie, in the Aziteks, footsteps appeared on the dingy old carpet. They were bloody hoofprints, each composed of two long claws and a point; two on the right, two on the left, stamping out a burgundy path along the carpet, then out the door.

  Follow the red-bricked road, Kenny thought grimly.

  “Last chance, Eddie. Please.”

  “Did you know the word vindicator appears in the Bible? I googled it. It means ‘God.’ Is that what you guys think of yourselves? You’re gods? Care to comment on the record?”

  “It’s from X-Men, asshole.”

  “Kenny Baker swearing? See, we all have hidden layers!”

  Truer than you know, Kenny thought. “I tried. Remember that.”

  Eddie gave him a sarcastic “Oooh, I’m scared” face.

  Kenny nodded and followed the hoofprints out the door.

  37   THE CULT OF PYTHAGORAS

  Charlie drove to Alex’s modest, spare house. He always hated going there—it was cold and bare, no furniture but the essentials. Just in case the cops were coming, looking for a bat-wielding vandal, Charlie parked down the street and went around back to Alex’s window. He was there, inside, working at his desk. That was new—Charlie hadn’t seen Alex study a day in his life. Charlie knocked on the glass.

  “I knew you were coming,” Alex said without explanation. He seemed to enjoy the secret bit of knowledge. Did Alex have the Eye of God, too?

  It wasn’t homework on his desk. The papers strewn about were covered with nonsense, triangles with numbers and Hebrew letters scribbled inside.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s kabbalah. Numerology. The Game’s showing me some wicked stuff.”

  “Alex, are you okay? You seem really hyped up.”

  “I’m fine. Now look at this.” Alex started saying something about the destructive power of the four-letter name of God.

  Charlie looked around Alex’s room. It was a mess. Not just a normal kid’s mess but really scattered. Had it always been this bad? He couldn’t remember.

  “How did the test go?” Charlie asked carefully.

  “Do you even care?”

  “Of course I do. I texted.”

  “I didn’t get any text.”

  That was odd. Charlie had sent it as soon as he remembered.

  “So … did the test go okay?”

  “I hope so.” A chill was in Alex’s words.

  Charlie treaded lightly. “What time does your dad get home?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Alex looked up and met Charlie’s eyes. “He’ll wait until the grade comes back.”

  A cold wave passed through Charlie. That was the closest Alex had ever come to saying it. He’ll wait to … do what?

  “Do you want me to call someone?”

  “You literally can’t speak the four-letter name.” Alex pointed back to the papers on his desk.

  “Alex, listen to me.”

  “No, you listen to me. I don’t care about physics. This is way more interesting.”

  Alex swung his hand toward the desk and knocked over a bottle of pills. They skittered all over the place, and he started frantically trying to sweep them up.

  Charlie picked up the bottle, but it was unlabeled. “Who gave you these?”

  “It’s just Adderall.”

  “Alex, when’s the last time you slept?”

  Alex’s gaze swung to Charlie’s right. “I know what he’s trying to do,” he snapped.

  Charlie glanced where Alex was talking to, but no one was there.

  “Alex, are you playing the Game right now?”

  “I’ll handle it,” Alex said, this time to someone on Charlie’s left.

  “Alex, take your glasses off.”

  “Why? You think I can’t handle you without the Game?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You think I can’t write all that stuff without these on?”

  “Alex, I’m your friend.”

  He snorted, a short bitter laugh, and Charlie remembered his microsecond failure by the portables—that split-second delay between You don’t want me in the group anymore and That’s not true—that told Alex everything he needed to know.

  Maybe that’s when things went off course, Charlie thought, or maybe it had been going on long before and they’d just been blind to the signs, but it was never too late to make things right.

  “Nobody likes me,” Alex said. “I’d be better off gone.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Alex, I don’t think this Game is good for you. They way you’re talking…”

  “You’re just jealous,” Alex said angrily, “because I finally found something I’m better at.”

  Charlie put the pill bottle down on Alex’s desk. Charlie didn’t know what to say or how to help him. Something caught his eye in the papers—one of the Lord LittleDick posters of Tim that had gotten Alex beaten up by the portables in the first place.

  “I never asked for your help,” Alex said, seeing Charlie notice the poster.

  You did a good deed, and God was watching.

  An idea was forming in Charlie’s head, the pieces coming together. The Lord LittleDick poster led to Alex’s fight. The Game had sent Charlie there with a fake text to test him. What had inspired Alex to put up those posters in the first place? Why then? Right after the Game’s invitations had come.…

  “Alex, when did you start playing the Game?”

  Alex blinked at the question. “When we all did. That night at the Tech Lab.” He started fidgeting with his sleeve.

  And why hadn’t any of Alex’s posters gone up? Because one of Tim’s friends caught him first. What were the odds of that, catching Alex in the act … unless something tipped off Tim’s friend, just like Charlie was tipped off to the fight.…

  “Alex, did the Game tell you to put those posters of Tim up?”

  Alex didn’t answer.

  “You accepted the invitation. You started playing before us.”

  “No…”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “I earned my Goldz fair and square. I didn’t start early. I’m ahead of you.”

  “I don’t care who’s winning! Don’t you see, the Game used you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It didn’t let you put the posters up. It wanted you to get caught, so Tim’s friends would come after you. To see what I would do.”

  “This is not about you,” Alex cried. “It’s not always about you. Or Peter. Or Kenny.”

  “Alex, I know. I didn’t mean that. I’m just saying—”

  “Just go away. Just leave me alone for once.”

  “Alex…”

  “No. I won’t let you take this away.”

  “It’s using us. All of us.” Charlie thought of his chessboard. “We’re pawns, Alex. We’re not playing the Game. It’s playing us.”

  Alex shook his head. “Maybe you. Not me.”

  “Did you destroy Mr. B.’s car?”

  Alex lo
oked at him wide-eyed, then looked away.

  “Just come to the Tech Lab tonight. Promise me that. I’ll get everyone together and we’ll talk it through. Then, you can make whatever choice you want, for you. I won’t try to stop you. But if you want to stop, we’ll be there for you. We screwed up before. We let you down. I won’t again.”

  Alex didn’t answer.

  “Promise me. Please.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

  Charlie couldn’t tell if Alex meant it or not.

  There was nothing left to say. Alex was done, Charlie could tell.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Charlie said, going to the window.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Alex said offhandedly.

  He hit Charlie so hard in the shoulder it nearly knocked him down.

  “What the fuck?” Charlie cried. He grabbed his shoulder and squeezed the muscles, trying to get the pain to fade. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Your Blaxx.” Alex checked something on his Aziteks. “You were up to twenty-five. Now you’re back down to zero. Trust me, you don’t want those building up.”

  38   AZAZEL

  Kenny followed the bloody hoofprints down the tiled hallway. One of the four hooves seemed to belong to a broken leg; that print dragged where the others stomped, creating a ghoulish image of an unfinished hunt: clack clack drag clack … clack clack drag clack … A hunter leisurely chasing down a wounded beast. Closing in.

  He followed them up two flights of stairs, where they turned left down a new wing.

  They led Kenny to room 333, which was unlocked and quiet.

  The hoofprints continued under the door and into the room, which was filled with art supplies and half-finished paintings on easels.

  In realspace the canvases were high school art projects, all trying to depict the same bowl of fruit, apples on oranges on pears, with varying degrees of success. In gamespace the canvases bore images out of the bowels of hell. Ruben’s Massacre of the Innocents, as told in the Gospel of Matthew. Goya’s horrific vision of Saturn devouring his own son, for fear of being surpassed by his own children.

  A man was in the shadows, tending a fire that sparked and illuminated his face. It was wild with the eyes of the believer. His long beard was unkempt, from days of travel over harsh terrain.

  “Father?” a voice came quietly from the shadows.

  “Yes, my son?” the man near Kenny replied.

  “The fire and wood are here. But where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”

  Near to Kenny, Abraham answered softly, “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.”

  Abraham was building an altar.

  Kenny reached forward, his hand passing through Abraham’s face. He could hear the fire crackling and almost feel the heat.

  Abraham bound his son, Isaac. There was no struggle. Kenny couldn’t understand that. He wanted to yell to Isaac, Fight back. Why are you letting him do this? Isaac was a child. His eyes were wide. Abraham laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. Then he reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son.

  It came down furiously toward the little boy’s head.

  “Stop,” Kenny yelled.

  An angel of the Lord called out from heaven, “Abraham! Abraham!”

  “Here I am,” he replied.

  “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the angel said. “Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”

  Kenny heard a bleating from the distance.

  Where the hoofprints ended, a ram was caught by its horns in a thicket.

  Abraham went to the ram and held the knife to its neck.

  He turned and said to Kenny, “Your phone is about to ring.”

  * * *

  Charlie climbed out of Alex’s window, feeling worse than when he’d gone in.

  No police had come. The coast was clear.

  But Alex was guilty. Charlie was sure of it. And Alex was slipping into a bad place.

  Charlie got into his car and his phone buzzed. It wasn’t a text message or a map this time. A video was waiting for him.

  The grainy security-camera feed was from one of those black orbs on the ceilings of banks and casinos or, in this case, a parking garage. A chipper techno beat was playing, and the footage was crudely but happily edited, zipping forward in superspeed, reversing to the sound of a needle skimming off a record, then replaying in slow motion, jump-cutting to the beat.

  In the footage Charlie saw himself from above, running across the garage, scrambling at his car, his foot stomping down on the hand grabbing at his leg. When it came time for the sickening snap, the screen and music froze, and a cheerful caption flashed across the screen:

  OH SNAP!!!!

  Watching it, Charlie felt ill,.

  The video kicked back to life and the foot came down, the wrist of the unseen assailant bending into its unnatural V. A canned WAV file said, “Oh, no, you didn’t!” saucily, and the video zipped backward, the foot raising up, the wrist unsnapping, folding back into unbroken shape. The music paused, then powered forward, the wrist breaking again.

  As the unseen person writhed in pain, cradling the limp hand and pulling back under the car, more words appeared across the screen.

  Who are you to judge?

  The shame coursed through him. Charlie closed the God Game’s taunt and texted his friends. He had to convince them to quit the Game. It was making all of them crazy, doing things they shouldn’t—wouldn’t—have ever done before.

  Channeling his inner Peter, he wrote:

  Tech Lab. Midnight.

  Maybe if he was fun, if he mirrored Peter’s text that got them into the Game, he could lure them back out. Then, just to show them he still had a sense of humor, he added:

  No candles this time (Peter that means you)

  Maybe if he didn’t seem like a total nag, they’d listen to him and stop playing the amazingly fun game that was leading them all off a cliff.

  * * *

  No sooner had Abraham made his prediction than Kenny’s phone rang in his pocket, making him jump.

  “What the fuck did you do?” the voice on the other yelled. It was Eddie. He was irate, madder than Kenny had ever heard him. “The computer’s fried. I can’t even get it to turn back on.”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, bullshit. I know you have those hacker friends. What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “This is destruction of school property. You can’t just wash this off a wall.”

  “Whatever. I didn’t do it.”

  “I bet you think you stopped me. But you didn’t. I lost my article, but it’s all in my head. You slowed me down, that’s all. This is coming.”

  The line clicked dead.

  Abraham knelt before Kenny. “You do want my help?”

  Kenny paused. “Yes,”

  “Then you must do something for the Lord.”

  “What?”

  “You must mark the door of this house.”

  Kenny looked down at his bandaged fingers.

  Abraham shook his head. “You will not hurt yourself anymore.”

  The old man stood, towering over Kenny and walking to the rows of supplies in the milk crates stacked floor to ceiling. Abraham’s eyes went to the cans of spray paint.

  A voice filled the room, not Abraham’s:

  “The blood will be a sign for you, on the houses where you are, and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike.”

  Abraham lifted a can from the shelf, and Kenny had to look over his glasses to realize it was only an illusion, and the real cans remained where they were.

  Abraham stood before Kenny and placed the virtual can into his hands. “We shall call this place The Lord Will Provide. You will deliver a message.” In the corner, an unbound Isaac hugged himself and rubbed his wrists, whimpering qu
ietly and not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  Kenny looked at the large man before him, then down at the paint. “What do I have to write?”

  The Game told him.

  Kenny shook his head. “I won’t do that.”

  The characters in front of him didn’t react. Abraham and Isaac just stayed in place, breathing, otherwise still.

  “I’ll sacrifice myself. Let Eddie get me. I’ll take the fall. Let my friends go.”

  Abraham unpaused to smile and say, “Do what you’re told.”

  39   THE CATACOMB OF VEILS

  Charlie found a terminal in a corner of the library, where he could focus. A public computer, not linked to him. He went to Google and typed, How do I quit the God Game?

  He hit Enter.

  Nothing happened.

  All he saw was the blank white page, the Google logo, and the text box below it. Still the cleanest, purest website on earth. No muss, no fuss. Just an empty page, a question, an answer.

  Charlie typed in again:

  Google

  How do I quit the God Game?

  He hit Enter.

  Nothing.

  The text box just blinked empty.

  Google

  “Come on.”

  He typed, What is the God Game?

  Nothing.

  Who made the God Game?

  Nothing.

  How did it do that? Had the game hacked Google? Unlikely. Had it commandeered his screen?

  He tried another angle.

  Google

  How do I make a hat?

  Enter.

  And on and on and on.

  He typed:

  Google

  What is a fart?

  Enter.

  So the internet was still intact. He typed:

  Google

  What is the God Game?

  Nothing.

  No answer.

  He googled Friends of the Crypt. Only two of their names were public: the rest were minors at the time, their names sealed. There was Dave Meyer, the leader, who killed himself. And Scott Parker, who’d gone to jail. Charlie typed in: