by Danny Tobey
98 THE FALL OF THE AZTECS
Alex stood on the ledge, fifty feet above the pavement, on the roof of Turner High. Downtown glimmered in the distance. The wind whipped past and chilled him, a sign of the winter he would never see. Legend had it that this was where David Meyer, founder of the Friends of the Crypt, had stood some thirty years ago, when his club was shattered and he was awaiting trial, his full ride to Princeton revoked and gone.
Alex was ready to follow suit, all the way down.
But unlike poor Dave, this wasn’t a rash act of despair.
It was an elegant solution.
For once, he would be the hero, not the victim. Let’s see how Charlie liked it, being saved. The shame of it.
Alex had summoned Charlie.
Come to the Roof of the school.—a.d.
Charlie would have to watch, to witness what Alex had done for him, so he could carry it with him forever. This was his idea, not the Game’s, yet it would be a legacy better than any bomb. He felt proud for the first time he could remember.
Charlie arrived, his arm wrapped tight in a torn shirt, soaked with blood. He looked at Alex in shock, as if for a moment he’d forgotten everything about the Game and jumped straight from normal life to the roof of the school, wondering, How did we end up here?
99 THE GAME OF DEATH
Alex smiled from the ledge, hovering between life and death. “The key was always right there.”
Charlie didn’t speak. There was such an eerie calm about Alex, Charlie didn’t dare.
“One for all, and all for one. That’s what we used to say.”
Alex lifted a foot, just for a moment, and seemed to waver forward.
Fifty feet down, the darkness beckoned.
Charlie raised a hand, slowly—Don’t. Wait.
“It was my idea. Not the Game’s. I will be the One for All. I will free All for One.”
Charlie took a slow, careful step forward. Let him talk, he told himself. Don’t startle him.
Alex rocked back on his heels. “I know how you quit the Game. I know that’s what you want. But you don’t have the guts to do it. I’ll do it for you. I made a deal. My life, to set you all free. And every day, you’ll remember me. What I did for you.”
Charlie stepped forward again, hand up, gently.
Bad thoughts tried to fight into his conscious mind, bubbling up from the id. Would it be so wrong? What is the alternative? Everyone dying, one by one, in the Game, like that hackers’ thread? Or playing forever, losing our minds like Scott Parker?
And Alex wanted to die. His plan made so much sense, it was so win-win, that Charlie started to question his own sanity. But he knew these were just greedy, impish thoughts from the id. He’d been through too much to claim they weren’t part of him, but he shoved them back down in the vault where they belonged.
Charlie finally managed to speak, but it came out hoarse. “I’m sorry, Alex.”
Alex just blinked.
“Come down. If you want me to owe you, that’s how, because that’s what I want. For you to come down.”
“It’s too late.” Alex smiled sadly. “I’m too far away.”
Did he mean the distance from Charlie to the ledge? Or to Mars? Either way, it was too far to bridge in time.
“I have to go now. Build me a totem.”
“Why don’t you finally leave him alone,” a voice said from behind Charlie.
Peter was here. “The Eye of God sees all.” He smiled.
Alex looked at Peter with a mix of awe and envy. He was the only one better at the Game than Alex. Peter had brought the Game to Alex—and the Game had given Alex’s life its only meaning.
“You apologize to him?” Peter brushed past Charlie. “But you never give him what he asks. They’re not worth it, Alex. They’re not worth your sacrifice.”
“They’ll owe me. I’m the hero.”
Peter smiled. “I know. But there’s other ways to own them.”
He moved so casually, so lovingly, toward Alex, that Alex was completely off guard when Peter grabbed him, pulling him back from the edge, face-to-face.
“They’re my pieces, Alex,” Peter said gently. “I can’t let you set them free.”
“I want to die,” Alex moaned.
“I know. I’m going to give you that, too. And then the rest of us will play forever.”
Peter lifted him off the ledge. Alex’s eyes were wide, too spent to argue or struggle.
“Up and over, by my hand, not yours.”
Peter was looking out over the rooftop when Charlie hooked his good arm around Peter’s neck and pulled them backward, falling hard onto the gravel roof, Peter crushing him.
Charlie gathered his waning strength and rolled on top.
Peter looked up and grinned.
Charlie held him down and shouted into his perfect face, “You did this to us. You brought the Game into our lives.”
“You should be thanking me,” Peter growled back. “You were nowhere. A ghost. I gave you something to fight for.”
Charlie smashed his fist into Peter’s face. His own vision blurred. How much blood had he lost?
Peter rolled on top, grinning, blood on his teeth. “I hate you. You know that, right? I never lied about being a liar. You haven’t known yourself a day in your life.” He struck Charlie, and the stars blurred. “We were brothers.”
“I’m not your brother,” Charlie spat.
“Yeah. How’s Daddy, by the way.” Peter grinned. “I made that mod, too. ‘Do you love your dad? Y/N?’ Nice save, by the way! The Game loved it. Personally, I was betting on the meth head.”
Rage exploded inside Charlie. He brought his good arm hard across Peter’s perfect face, knocking him aside. “You did that to me? To my dad?”
“I got Caitlyn, too. And Kurt, no one will ever want to look at him again. Life is bullshit, Charlie. There’s no fairness, no justice, unless we make it. Morality is an illusion, a social construct to hold back the masses while the hunters prey. When will you learn? When will you finally realize how wrong you are?”
Charlie did see it then. Peter was like the internet itself, a parentless creature, a trillion nodes connecting but nothing inside. Peter would never stop hurting people. There was only what he wanted and how to get it.
He put his hands around Charlie’s neck.
“It feels good, Charlie, being who you really are.”
Charlie managed to say, “I know. I was wrong.”
“Yeah?” Peter loosened his grip slightly to let Charlie speak. “About what?”
He met Peter’s eyes—those infinite, flawless blue eyes. “I thought you could be saved. You can’t.”
Peter’s hand closed around Charlie’s throat, and Charlie reached up, fingers through Peter’s golden hair, and pulled him down hard, banging his head onto the roof. His eyes dazed. Charlie rolled on top of Peter and looked over in time to see Alex moving to jump.
“No,” Charlie cried. He grabbed the back of Alex’s coat and pulled with all his might, and Alex felt the roof leave him and saw the empty void below spring forward, then stop, still far away, as Charlie used a strength he didn’t know he had to pull Alex back onto the roof, shoving him onto his knees toward the middle of the rooftop.
Alex was screaming, “No, no, no, no.” It was pure rage. “You can’t. I’m the hero. The Game will never stop.”
Charlie said, “Yes, it will. The Game is over for us.” He took Peter by the arms, pulling him up, still dazed. “And there are no heroes.”
With the last ounce of his strength, Charlie cast beautiful, lost Peter over the ledge.
100 FILE SAVED
What does it mean to be saved? Is it a version of yourself from years ago, perfectly preserved, so that you can return to it one day, unblemished, no matter what insults have happened since? No matter the mistakes and errors and blows and sins?
Or is it the opposite: overwriting all past versions of yourself, so that everything bef
ore has been wiped away, leaving only the newest, latest version to go forward and sin no more?
Or is the simplest explanation true: that there is no such thing as salvation? Only a series of files, disjointed, slices of time that—when strung together—give the approximation of life. The way a flip-book gives the illusion of motion.
It would be comforting to think that there were hidden variables—that the universe was smooth and continuous, and not, at base, a series of right angles stitched together.
But Charlie didn’t think anymore that was true. There were gaps. Rough edges. Every lullaby could be broken down into ones and zeros. Every landscape was at base a cloud of random particles. The real question was, Could you know that and still find the landscape beautiful?
Charlie awoke in the hospital to find Mr. Burklander sitting there, watching him.
“Don’t try to move. You’re still very weak.”
Charlie wanted to ask, “How long have I been here,” but his throat was too dry.
Mr. B. filled a paper cup with water and handed it to him.
Charlie drank, and his eyes closed again for a moment.
“Your dad’s getting some food. He’ll be back soon.”
“What happened?”
“To you?”
Charlie nodded.
“You’re hurt.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were on the side of the road. Out by Westbrook. Somebody called 911.”
Charlie nodded slowly, trying to pull up the last thing he could remember.
Mr. Burklander held Charlie’s gaze. “Peter was a bad kid.”
Was.
“I don’t doubt he was into some bad things, and maybe those things led to bad ends.”
Charlie didn’t respond. He just held Mr. B.’s gaze.
“I don’t think you wanted those things to happen.”
Charlie wasn’t going to say anything, but then he remembered Mr. B. collapsing to the floor, his heart jolted from within.
Charlie was unable to control himself and his eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. You don’t deserve to hear it, but I know you are.”
They sat quietly for a while, then Mr. B. got up.
“I’ll let you rest.” He paused by the door, then decided to add something. “The older you get, you start seeing patterns. Maybe it’s early dementia, who knows? Kids and their clubs. Hidden worlds. There’s always more to it than we know. Anyway, story for another time.”
Mr. B. gave one of those corny teacher’s winks, but his face was far more weary than that. He left and let the door shut softly behind him.
* * *
Eddie Ramirez was at home when his doorbell rang, and Mrs. Morrissey was there. It was jarring to see the principal who expelled you at your house, but she came in and gathered with Eddie and his parents around the coffee table in their living room.
“The good news is,” Mrs. Morrissey said, “that we can make this right. Kenny has turned himself in and taken full responsibility for the prank. He didn’t intend for your son to get caught up in it. The consequences will be severe. He’ll have to repeat his senior year, and of course this will affect his college applications. It will be a significant stain on his permanent record. At the same time, we’ll make a full explanation to the colleges of Eddie’s choice, and we’ll make sure that they understand the expulsion has been fully expunged and withdrawn.”
“What about scholarships?” his mom asked.
“It shouldn’t affect any scholarships. We’ll make sure of that. They’ll know this wasn’t Eddie’s fault in any way.” Mrs. Morrissey’s smile tightened. “Now, if this resolution sounds acceptable, we do have these papers that the district’s lawyers have asked us to share with you, releasing us from any lawsuits or things of that nature. If you’d like a chance to review with counsel of your choice…”
Mrs. Ramirez took the pen from Elaine Morrissey’s hand. “This will be fine.” Mrs. Ramirez signed away her anger and let a sense of peace—of intense relief—well up inside her.
Around the same time, Mr. Walker found an envelope filled with cash in his mailbox. He had no idea why. He couldn’t know that Vanhi had sold her bass pedal, or that Kenny and Charlie had delivered the envelope to his tiny, boarded house in the dead of night. He couldn’t even count the money. Later that day, Mrs. Morrissey would call and offer him his job back. It was baffling. All he could do was look up and down the street, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, marveling at a plan larger than himself that he could scarcely comprehend.
* * *
The funeral for Peter Quine was a small affair. His father was there, wearing sunglasses so it was hard to read his face. The obituary made vague references to Peter’s troubled life, without mentioning his expulsion or arrest or suicide. Rather it just said that he had finally found peace in the arms of his Maker. The priest, who didn’t know Peter and hadn’t met him, was a little more direct, speaking of the troubles and temptations of today’s youth, particularly online.
Charlie showed up, feeling strangely calm. His arm was in a sling.
He wanted to feel guilty. That would be the human thing to do. But in truth, he didn’t. He felt guilty about a million other things. But for dragging a semiconscious Peter to the edge of a rooftop and casting him off—by far the worst thing anyone Charlie knew had ever done—he couldn’t muster regret. In the moment, an upside-down moment to be sure, it had felt like the right thing to do.
Kenny and Vanhi were at the service, too. Alex was in a psychiatric hospital, getting help. He’d been diagnosed with depression and an acute psychotic break. Medications might help. Therapy, too. The Vindicators had gone to visit, but they didn’t make it into the room. When they arrived, Alex’s father was already in there, cradling him, singing a song in another language, but it had the universal cadence of a lullaby. “My boy, my sweet, sweet boy,” he kept whispering between songs.
They couldn’t reconcile the man in front of them with the man who’d sent Alex to school with welts and bruises, limping and broken. But that was another relic of the Game: they didn’t even try. They watched quietly from a distance, then left.
* * *
After Peter’s funeral, the small crowd dispersed without fanfare. Charlie, Vanhi, and Kenny walked together through the grave sites. Vanhi walked with a cane, to keep weight off her injury as it healed. In typical Vanhi style, she’d picked a silver-topped wolf’s-head cane, which was, in her estimation, badass. They passed Peter’s dad, standing alone against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
“You were Peter’s friends?” he asked.
Charlie choked on the irony and couldn’t find words.
Kenny said, “Yes.”
“I don’t know you,” Peter’s dad said. “I wasn’t around much.”
The Vindicators didn’t know what to say, so they stood there awkwardly.
“Was he really that unhappy? You know, to do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said finally.
“He was in trouble, at school,” Kenny said. “I think that was it. I don’t think he was unhappy most of the time.”
The graceful answer seemed to give the dad some comfort. “I should have paid more attention. But, you know, he was always gonna do what he was gonna do. He had a will of his own.” The man shrugged. He still had the sunglasses on, and his face was still unreadable. “Thanks for coming.”
The Vindicators wound through the paths. The sky was bright and cheerful, an odd contrast to the graves. Charlie had told them everything. After the run-in with Peter’s father, Vanhi said, “Charlie, what you did…” He tried to stop her but she said, “You shouldn’t feel bad.”
They didn’t discuss it again.
After a while, Kenny said, “Should we do it now?”
Charlie and Vanhi nodded.
They pulled their Aziteks out.
“I peeked last night,” Kenny said. “They don’t work anymore.
They’re just blank.”
“You mean clear,” Charlie said.
Kenny laughed. “Yeah. Right. Clear.”
One by one, they put their Aziteks on the ground. Together, they pressed their feet down, grinding them into pieces. Vanhi used her cane to crush her lenses.
Charlie kicked the remnants into the bushes.
“Okay.” Charlie readied himself. “You sure you guys are up for this?”
“We should have done it a long time ago,” Vanhi said.
“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Let’s go.”
They wound together through the paths, until they came to the gravestone that read ALICIA LAKE. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.
They stared at it, together. Vanhi wove her fingers through Charlie’s hand. Kenny did the same on the other side. They looked for a while, without talking.
“It hurts every day,” Charlie said.
“We’re here.” Vanhi nested her chin on his shoulder.
101 HOMECOMING
Vanhi withdrew her Harvard application. She applied again for regular admissions, this time with her real scores and essays. Three months later, she would receive an envelope in the mail, containing her rejection slip: Dear Ms. Patel: This year Harvard received a record number of applications. We are very sorry to inform you …
On that day, she would stand outside, no longer needing her cane, and feel okay. The world did not stop spinning. No one was hurt or gone. She would read the letter again, take a deep breath, then go inside to tell her mom.
Mary became student body president, after Charlie dropped out of the race. Caitlyn Lacey had won homecoming queen, and her new boyfriend, Joss Iverson, was king. People whispered that she’d gotten a “sympathy bump” because her lake house burned down. Talk about first-world problems, Kenny had said. Kurt was recovering. His life would never be the same, in ways both good and bad, although the balance between the two seemed to swing wildly from day to day. He hoped, no, he knew, one day that would even out.