Most of the Gamers were wounded somewhere; Alex himself had half a dozen wounds. Margie was unmarked, She had taken to the machete like a bat to warm blood. The Undead seemed unable to deal with her style: imprecise and untutored, but full of crazy energy.
Alex had reached the wall. He set his back to it and yelled, “Re-form!” Chester looked at him with raised eyebrow, then nodded in approval.
The group broke up, hacking wildly at the lunging corpses, and formed two lines against the rocks. The zombies kept to the sand, off the rock and away from the water, and that cut the vulnerable area to two sides, far easier to defend.
Still, they came on, and on. No longer was it possible for Griffin to pause between slayings. The dead piled up around his feet and swarmed to cloud his vision. He was sweating, and the sweat rolled into his eyes, blurring sight. The smell of the Undead, their hideous appearance, and the sound of the laughing, the unholy tittering, were wearing him down.
He saw what happened to Gina. Two corpses menaced her. One was mutilated, a tittering, twitching woman missing a leg and an arm. She leaned on a tall pole tucked under the stump of the missing arm. Her good hand jabbed with a bayonet fixed to half of a shattered M- 1 rifle. Gina, fending off a smallish, long-dead man, swung backhand to cleave her open. The woman wheeled; the butt of Gina’s machete smacked into her crutch.
Gina froze; she turned to stare. She must have assumed the butchered, half-decomposed corpse was a hologram. The man she’d ignored swung at her neck.
“Gina!” Chester screamed, and Alex saw her buckle to the sand, her aura black as night, and two grinning zombies still slashed at her. Tony scooped up her magic staff desperately. The tool was drained of power, but a night’s rest would recharge it.
The line tightened, the eight remaining Gamers clustered about Lady Janet, all of them ragged and wheezing with weariness, arms rising and falling, rising and falling . . .
One face stood out in the press. The shaggy dark brows were whitened, and the glacial blue eyes seemed dulled by death, but it was still Bowan the Black who worked his way toward Chester. The blade in his hand seemed more like a wakizashi, a Japanese short sword, than a simple chopping implement. His target was Henderson. Alex yelled a warning, then turned to his own defense.
Zombie-Bowan snarled and struck. Henderson, clumsy with his edged tool, slithered out of the way and pushed Bowan back to gain room.
But Bowan was out for blood. There was no pause, no lag to give Henderson time to adjust his balance. Bowan spun, and backhanded his sword into Chester’s leg. The Lore Master cursed, and forgot all semblance of style, chopping insanely at Bowan.
The former Magic-User was caught by surprise. His aura went red at shoulder, thigh, stomach. He was forced to the ground, where the Lore Master performed butchery.
Next to Griffin, Holly Frost gasped as a red slash spread on her left arm. He deflected a stroke for her while she regained her poise. “Owe you,” she said between clenched teeth.
Alex took a wound in the calf, and Oliver a slashed scalp. The animated corpses died in droves; their bodies hampered movement, and now and then one would clutch at an ankle. The action was being forced along the rock spit, toward the sea, toward the Foré priests.
Perhaps they realized it. There was a cry, high and wavering, like the caw of an eagle. The zombie facing Griffin stepped back a pace, and turned.
In shock, Alex saw that the entire mass of Undead had stepped away from the beleaguered Gamers, retreating in a semicircle, toward the trees.
Acacia gasped, “Now what?”
Griffin looked at his wrist. For a moment the watch imprinted on his sleeve seemed foreign, entirely magic, unreadable. Then, “Six minutes to go. We can’t follow . . . the zombies, but. . .”
Frankish Oliver turned and began to clamber up the rocks. “We can still . . . get the priests!”
Alex felt that if he stopped moving he would never start again. He pulled himself up behind Oliver, who was not exactly sprinting. Rocks rolled underfoot. He reached the top, to see beaver-dam hair styles disappearing down the other side.
Oliver was clambering along the top of the spit. He stopped. He pointed with his sword, seaward. As Alex came up beside him, he found breath for one word. “Boats.”
They stood panting, watching. The three small boats were archaic enough, but they weren’t native to New Guinea. There was English lettering on the sterns. Each boat held one Foré priest, standing, and one zombie seated at the oars.
Chester and the other Gamers had found the strength to join them. Together they watched the three boats tie up beneath the door in the flank of the Spruce Goose. The Foré climbed a dangling rope ladder. Their Undead oarsmen remained in the boats.
And then the sea and the huge plane faded into darkness, though the beach was still in twilight. When Alex looked at his watch it was ten o’clock.
They climbed down from the rocks in time to see Gina rise up to join her tindalo. Chester watched her go. When he turned back to them the defeat in his face was impossible to ignore. “He’s still dragging it out. Tomorrow. . .”
Acacia swallowed air and clicked her sword into its sheath. Her hair was matted with sweat and sand, and she looked as if she had dug ditches all day. “More likely he’s worried, Chester.”
At first Chester seemed not to hear her; then he turned. “Worried why?”
“What will the IFGS think about an assault like that?”
He scratched his stubble, eyes worried. “I don’t know. We sure as hell had plenty of warning . . .”
Acacia seemed alarmed. “Chester! What is the matter with you? You’re on our side, remember?”
The Lore Master sank down in the sand, looking out into the darkness. “Hasn’t done you much good, has it?” He turned over, face down. He sounded horribly tired. “Maybe we should have gone back for more black fire. Scatter it in the loam on the forest floor. Rot is slow fire, it should burn backward. Let the zombies come at us there . . . it might have stopped them . . .
The Gamers shifted around uncomfortably, watching Chester brood.
Alex dropped beside him on the sand. “At least we finally know what we’re after. It’s right out there on the water, Chester. We even know where to find the boats!”
Chester nodded. He lifted himself on his elbows to glare into the darkness that hid the Spruce Goose. “Make camp,” he said abruptly. “Tomorrow’s another day. When the priests come back to finish us off, we’ll get’ em. Thanks, Griffin. God, I’m tired. But tomorrow. . .”
Griffin dropped his pack. He was unable to find any emotion to hang his fragmented thoughts on. He looked down at himself, for wounds. The red glow of hologram delivered wounds was gone. The bloodstains left by solid zombie weapons looked like paint. The day was turning unreal.
Ollie dropped into the sand next to him. He mumbled something Alex couldn’t quite hear.
“What?”
“I wish it was over.” The Thief had to bend low to hear him. “I just wish it was over.” He looked like an old man, the muscles in his cheeks slack, jowls hanging. A single tear ran glistening down his cheek.
A pat on the back was the only answer Griffin could find. He moved his pack away, over to a rock large enough to sit on. He huddled there, watching the tides turn off. Eight Gamers left. The Game was, indeed, almost over.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THIEVES IN THE NIGHT
“Get me Marty Bobbick, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alex sagged against the shadowed back of a dune. The sand was cooling now; it felt good against his skin. He could feel the fatigue but it seemed apart from him. His mind was racing. The Gamers were camped on the other side, a fair distance away. Alex listened, but tonight there was no singing, no laughter. He heard Margie and Chester talking, but couldn’t make out the words.
“Hail the Griffin, slayer of the undead!”
Ha ha. “Go ahead, Marty, get it out of your system.”
“Chie
f, I’m at least half serious. I never dreamed these Games could get that rough. If you weren’t in top physical shape we’d be carryinq you out. How does a sweet little old lady like that Margie Braddon keep going?”
“Sheer chutzpah. The rest of us are ready to lie down and die. I’m really worried about Ollie. I guess Gwen needed the points, but the last thing in the world he needed was having to kill his woman. Damn, but at least we know our target now! And it’s a whopper, Marty. Tomorrow—”
“It? Not a he or a she?”
He or she? Oh. Alex was too tired even to be irritated with himself. “Sorry. Jumped tracks again. It’s a he, Marty. You know, I went into this with entirely the wrong idea—”
He heard a faint scuffing from above. A few grains of sand pattered down around him. It stopped almost at once.
Alex rolled over and stood up, without obvious haste, while he kept talking. “I thought we must be chasing an experienced Gamer. Someone who knew the ropes so well that he could find extra time somewhere to creep off and do some work on the side.”
“It looks to me like nobody would ever know that much.”
“Damn right. The better you are, the more you know, the harder you work at not getting killed out. There aren’t any ropes to know. Each Game is a whole new ball of snakes.” He might have imagined that sound. A gust of wind could have blown that sand down on him . . . but under a dome? Alex felt himself becoming one gigantic ear.
“What are we looking for, then? A novice?”
“Right. And he gave himself away a couple of times.” Alex looked up, without turning his head. The shallow curve of the top of the dune had a bump on it. It could be the top of a head. Better not gamble on it. It if wasn’t, then a known killer might be coming around the dune.
He’d hear boots on sand. Wouldn’t he? Alex had left his machete beside his bedroll, and now he regretted it. The Game was in abeyance, and so were the Game rules governing physical combat.
He should have made this call from the middle of a nest of Gamers. Secrecy was meaningless now. Couldn’t be helped. All right, let’s lure him down . . .
Marty’s voice snapped, “Well?”
“He was too tired on the second day. This guy is in excellent condition, and he could barely climb a wall. He’d been up very late the night before. At the volcano, he was sure the bomb was a piece of misdirection. While the rest of the team was trying to move it out, he kept looking around. He must have already seen the Goose. And it’s too big; it must be a fair part of Lopez’s budget. It’s an important part of the Game, and we hadn’t got there yet. And at the harbor, he was too interested in the planes, and then not interested at all.”
Where the hell was he? He could not afford to let Griffin speak his name.
“Griff. Who?
Where was he?
“Griff! You all right? Shall I send in help? Griff!”
He’d fooled himself. There was nobody on the dune; he was alone. Nuts. “Fortunato. Tony McWhirter.”
“Good enough. Now what? Call the Game?”
But Alex heard a peculiar ragged sigh from overhead.
“I’ll get right back to you, Marty.” He flipped the wallet closed and pocketed it. “Come on down,” he called, and eased his left leg back for balance. McWhirter could still attack, and he might have a sword.
Tony stood up and walked down the slope, leaning slightly backward, plowing up sand. He was unarmed. He stopped several feet away, spread his hands. “I didn’t kill anybody,” he said.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Griffin said. “If you choose to—”
“I know, I watch the boob cube too. Griffin, I didn’t kill anyone. The guard almost killed me, but I didn’t hurt him. I tied him up and gagged him and left him. He was wriggling around, and I thought of maybe using more bandage, moor him to some furniture, maybe. But he wasn’t going to get loose quick enough to stop me.”
“Nice plan,” Griffin said with calculated flatness. “What happened? Did he get a good look at your face?”
“I didn’t kill him!”
“He’s dead, though. Suffocated. Did you accidentally hold his nose for him?”
Tony dropped into the sand and put his head between his knees. Griffin heard met sounds. He prudently kept his distance.
“He was still breathing! I . . . oh . . . I cut off his wind till he passed out, but he was breathing when I left him!”
“Where’s the neutral scent?” Tony looked up hopefully and started to speak. “No deals,” Griffin snapped. “It’s probably gone by now anyway. You had to have someone to pick it up.”
Tony shook his head violently. “He couldn’t have found it. Griffin, that’s crazy stuff. When I used it on you I had no idea what it would do to me. I just went crazy with fear. I must have smashed into every tree in Dream Park. There was a place where I was supposed to leave it, but I never got that far. I just got rid of it. I was afraid of it. I was afraid you’d search me”
“Where?”
“I can show you. Can we deal?”
“I’m promising nothing. The only question you need to ask is, how hard is Dream Park going to lean on you? You get to decide that right now.”
“Then get drowned! I don’t know who was supposed to get it. Maybe he’ll find it before you do.”
“Have it your way.” Griffin whetted his voice to a cutting edge. “But, Tony, even if Rice died of a stopped up nose, it’s murder. California law says that if someone dies as the result of the commission of a felony, it’s murder. Stand up.”
Tony stood. The defiance was gone. “What now?”
“We go tell the others that we’re leaving the Game.”
The darkness didn’t hide the sick dismay on Tony’s face. It took Griffin by surprise. “Oh god. This is going to kill Acacia. They won’t last five minutes tomorrow.”
“You should have thought of that before,” said Alex. He sensed Tony’s muscles tightening. “Come on, Tony. Playtime’s over.”
Tony sounded almost hysterical. “I’ve screwed everything. Everything. Please, Griffin. I can’t face them. Please.”
“I don’t fancy it much either.” The brutality in his voice was as much for his own benefit as McWhirter’s. “Come on.”
You’re betraying them to their deaths!
Bullshit. Being killed out isn’t dead. Rice is dead.
“Griffin, please! Let’s just play out the Game. Give me that much. Just a few hours. Then I’ll tell you where it is and turn myself in.”
“Don’t be silly.” Damn, and we had a good chance of winning, too.
“I’ll show you where I put the neutral scent. Tomorrow.”
“I can’t make that deal. Come on.”
Far too late, Tony jumped him. Griffin leaned aside from his wild swing and kicked him in the shin. As Tony doubled in pain Alex seized a handful of hair and an arm, locking him helpless.
Numb and silent, Tony was steered back to the campfire.
The campfire burned low to the coals, and no one seemed to have the energy to feed it. Kibugonai and Kagoiano were back to serve dinner; their faces were zombie-blank and their death-wounds showed clearly. Lady Janet found the strength to pass around pouches of milk and fruit juice and beer, but her smile was barely lip-deep.
Hardly a head turned as Alex brought Tony stumbling back into camp, until somebody noticed the arm twisted painfully behind McWhirter’s back. Chester stood, alarm igniting on his face. He bent his knees twice to get some circulation into them and challenged. “All right, Tegner. Just what the hell is going on?”
Alex released Tony, who stood shivering in a circle of questioning eyes. “Do you want to tell them, or shall I?”
Tony tried to speak, but nothing came out. He gave up and shook his head. Griffin felt pity worming its way to the surface of his mind, and shut his shields down fast. “All right, I’ll do it, then.”
He had all their attention now. None of them looked at all happy. “Three nights ago, McWhirter broke
away from the rest of you and took a private tour. He ended up in the Research and Development department, where he stole a sample of a newly developed . . . invention.” No need to give away more than necessary.
Acacia gasped. “My God. So that’s where you were that night.” In pain and disorientation she came up to him. “Oh, Tony . . . no wonder you’ve been acting crazy. If only I’d . . . Tony, why?”
All Tony did was lower his eyes miserably to the ground.
“That’s not all,” Alex said. Acacia’s look tore at him, made him wish he had taken Fortunato out of the Game first and explained later. Or never! “In order to gain access to the complex, Tony had to subdue a guard. In some manner not yet clear, that guard, one Albert Rice, died of Suffocation.”
Acacia seemed to study him. Then Tony. She said, flatly, “No.”
Alex said, “Well, Tony?”
Silently McWhirter nodded his head, tears beginning to run down his cheeks, glistening silver in the firelight.
“Then who are you?” Acacia’s query was delivered at a scream. The other Gamers seemed transfixed.
“Griffin. Alex Griffin. Chief of Dream Park Security.”
Chester looked like he’d looked when the bidi-taurabo-haza found him. “All right . . . Griffin. What happens now?” He reminded Griffin of a man waiting to hear the results of his biopsy: terrified and fascinated at the same time.
“Now . . .” Jesus. Do they have to look at me like that? I’m only doing my goddamn job. Mary-em sat curled up on the ground with her face between her knees. She didn’t want to look at him. A hint of defiance burned in Holly Frost’s dark face, quickly subdued. “You know what I have to do, dammit. Every one of you knows.”
No one argued, and he almost hoped they would. Come on, you fog-headed fantasy freaks. Yell at me. Scream. Call me a rent-a-pig. Anything.
Acacia stumbled back to her place near the campfire. She tried to swallow some beer, but it exploded in her mouth. Ollie held her as she coughed and sobbed.
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