Lizzie called, knowing Beck wouldn’t answer her phone, and she didn’t. Lizzie drove to school, certain she wouldn’t be there, either, and she wasn’t.
This is what it feels like to survive, Lizzie told herself. It felt lonely, but it was what she’d chosen, she thought, so she must have wanted it that way.
* * *
Robin Wasserman is the author of The Waking Dark and the forthcoming Girls on Fire. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies, including Oz Reimagined, Robot Uprisings, and The End Is Now, and she has published nonfiction in Tin House, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and The New York Times. She is a former children’s book editor who lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York, and has fonder memories of elementary school than this story would suggest. Find her at www.robinwasserman.com or on Twitter @robinwasserman.
RECOIL!
Micky Neilson
Jimmy Nixon put a 7.62 mm bullet straight through the guard’s head.
With practiced ease he slipped through the verandah into the villa’s great room. He took the nearest flight on the imperial staircase. As he ascended the steps (all solid pink), he spotted the next sentry on the floor above. In one swift motion he scoped the sentry and popped a single round through his faceplate.
Who’s next, motherfuckers?
He heard shouts. Someone had found the first guard’s corpse. A knot of angry henchmen—their body armor solid pink—ran onto the floor below, their Mag 5s trained on Jimmy. With a voice command he engaged auto-assist, then turned and strafed. The system calculated trajectory for multiple head shots and adjusted his heads-up reticle as necessary; Jimmy dropped the thugs like targets at a carnival shooting gallery. An automated voice, as well as the readout on his display, revealed that his ammo was spent. He switched out the magazine and continued on to the second floor. Jimmy switched his goggles to IR and spotted the cartel leader’s heat signature in the master bedroom. He raced down the hall, kicked in the boss’s pink door, and…
The game crashed. Jimmy threw up his hands, nearly pulling the controller cable out of the console. “Shit!” He was nearly at the boss fight. In record time, too.
With a grunt of frustration he tossed the controller onto the coffee table.
A small digital clock next to the testing station told him that it was almost two a.m. Damn, Kim’s gonna be pissed. She’d probably called him six times by now. Jimmy snapped up the TV remote and shut the set off, dropped the remote, and stood. The floor-to-ceiling window behind the testing setup offered a scenic view of the Bay Area. Jimmy stretched and shuffled over next to the entertainment unit to have a look. You could have a view like this every day if you get the job.
That was the plan. Jimmy had been hard at work since a little after nine, creating file after file of detailed texture maps for his portfolio. His buddy Ross McTiernan, the lucky bastard, had been working here at Full Metal Entertainment for six months. Ross was nice enough to not only promise Jimmy a referral but to offer up his own computer and software for him to use after hours, to create textures. If he played his cards right, he would get a job and be one of the guys making textures to replace the pink, untextured surfaces currently in the game.
Full Metal had developed one licensed game already—not a blockbuster, but a solid B title, and hordes of gamers were anxiously awaiting their next product, a first-person shooter.
It was currently in the alpha phase—playable by employees but not ready for beta, when it would be made available to public testers. RECOIL! was the name. “Pull the Trigger, Feel the Recoil!” It took place in a not-too-distant future where “multinational military forces, called Factions, have risen to prominence.” Through the tutorial, testers could choose one of two player character types—Enforcers, who fought against terrorism as well as organized crime and international drug operations, or Peacekeepers, who performed hostage rescue and close protection and were often embedded in hostile territory. Jimmy had just been an Enforcer. He had played as both types, though, and still wasn’t sure which he preferred.
Either way, the game was beyond badass and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to be a part of it. To be a texture artist at a promising new game developer before the age of twenty? How sick would that be?
Jimmy had taken a short break to play the game but had gotten swept away. Right about now it was time to shut off Ross’s computer and get back to his mom’s house, where Kim was no doubt still awake, waiting.
Just then a click-click echoed through the reception area outside. Jimmy leaned out and looked to his right, through the open office space to the main entry. Someone was opening one of the double doors. Did Ross come back? Another employee? The door swung open…
It was the building security guard.
Oh, shit. Jimmy technically wasn’t supposed to be there. Ross told him it wouldn’t be a big deal, but what if the guard was making rounds? Jimmy didn’t have a badge.
Dumb ass, hide!
He ducked back into the small room and slipped behind the right side of the couch.
A voice called out, “Security, anyone on the floor?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit…
Should he just go out and explain? But how would it look for Jimmy’s chances at getting hired if he was discovered sneaking time on Ross’s machine?
“Hellooo?”
The voice was at the other end of the floor space now. The guard was searching the entire office area. Footsteps approached the testing room. Jimmy curled up, made himself as small as possible, looking to see if he was being reflected in the opposite window. He wasn’t, but he could see the reflection of the doorway.
The figure of the guard stepped closer, a black man, maybe in his late twenties. There was a creak of the security guard’s belt as he leaned in. Jimmy’s heart thundered up into his throat. He held his breath.
The guard leaned back out, turned, and walked away. Jimmy exhaled a long sigh of relief.
He heard the entry door, then the guard’s voice again: “All clear, fellas.”
There was a discussion between the guard and maybe two more people as they passed by. The other two sounded like the bad guys from that game Cold War. Russians? What the hell were Russians doing here?
The conversation receded as they made their way to the back of the office space. There was the sound of two heavy objects hitting the floor. Jimmy eased out from behind the couch and back to the testing room doorway.
He peeked around the corner. The office floor was one big rectangle, with the entry doors and reception desk to his right and, to his left, QA/IT cubicles (all personalized with action figures and merchandise ranging from Star Wars to Doctor Who). There were two large duffel bags on the floor next to the corner cubicle opposite him. One bag had square metal legs sticking out. The periphery of the space was lined with smaller rooms like the one he was in now, most of them offices or bullpens.
The security guard had used his electronic badge to open a door at the far corner, diagonal from Jimmy’s position. This was the server room, and the door usually remained locked. The guard was inside, facing sideways, talking to the men who had moved into the room but were now out of Jimmy’s line of sight. The guard said, “Well, if that’s that, I’ll take my cash and get outta your way.”
A husky voice replied, “Yes, we should settle up.”
The guard said, “Hey!” and reached for something on his belt. Jimmy saw the silencer-equipped barrel of a gun come into his field of view, saw the barrel twitch upward, and heard a muffled Pop! as the guard’s head jerked back. The man collapsed.
Holy shit Jesus Christ what the fuck—
The barrel dropped out of sight. The same husky voice said, “Paid in full,” then spoke to his unseen companion in Russian.
Was that—did I really just see that? I just saw someone get killed. Jimmy’s hands covered his mouth. He was shaking all over, his heart jackhammering inside his chest.
Run, dumb ass!
The Russians were still inside the room, st
ill out of sight. A loud, piercing noise blared out. To Jimmy it sounded like one of those big drills, the kind used to bore through concrete. If he could just make it to the entry doors…
Legs quivering, he took rapid steps out of the testing room and toward the main doors, trying desperately not to make a sound, eyes glued to the server room doorway as he went. His head spun back around just in time to avoid running straight into the reception desk. He was just a few feet away from the entry doors when the handle spun downward.
Someone was coming in.
Shit shit shit shit—
Jimmy dropped to all fours and scuttled past the rolling chair and secreted himself under the reception desk.
Maybe it’s another guard, maybe it’s the cops—
The drilling noise stopped. A man from the server room called out in Russian. The man who had just entered answered. Jimmy heard the sound of the front door locks engaging.
Jimmy’s heart skipped as footsteps approached the reception desk…
…and passed by, heading toward the other end of the room. Jimmy tried to control his breathing so he wouldn’t be heard. He peeked out just enough to see the new man, wearing a red jogging jacket, at the first cubicle on the right-hand side, rummaging through a long duffel bag he had placed on the cubicle desk. Behind his feet were the bags Jimmy had already seen on the floor.
Think, think…
If he tried to make a run for the entry doors, he would have to stop long enough to unlock them. Maybe he could outrun these guys but only to the elevators, and then he’d have to push the button and wait.
Then he’d be dead.
There was a small hallway and exit at the back of the room that led to stairs, but there was no way he could make it past the guy who had just come in.
Phones. You need a phone, he thought. Call the police.
Right. He had brought his own cell phone, but it was in the artists’ bullpen, charging, and the artists’ bullpen was right by the server room. So no dice. But if he could crawl into the level designers’ bullpen, which was next to the testing room, he could use one of their desk phones. There was a stand-up of RECOIL!’s main character, Brock Johnson, behind the reception desk that could help block him from view as he relocated. Jimmy looked over at the Russian; the guy was still occupied with the bag.
Now or never.
Jimmy scurried on hands and knees across the short open space to the designers’ bullpen doorway. Once inside, he tried again to slow his breathing as he listened for any indications that he’d been detected. There was none.
The long, rectangular room was filled with workstations and had entryways on either end. Jimmy ran to a desk that was situated in the middle of the room, where he couldn’t be seen directly from either doorway. He picked up the receiver with a shaky hand, put it to his ear…
But there was no sound.
He looked at the base’s display, which would normally show the time and have menu options, but the screen was blank. Jimmy replaced the receiver and looked at the displays on the surrounding phones. All blank as well. He looked at the computers. Some of the guys left their computers on all night, but they were all password protected and he didn’t know any of their passwords.
The phones were all connected to the company’s local network. They must have shut off the network to this floor. Even if he could get on to a computer, he’d have no Internet access.
Maybe…maybe he could just hide out here until they did whatever it was they came to do.
Jimmy backed up against the wall near the second entryway. He could hear a voice in Russian come through a walkie-talkie. A Russian voice in the office responded; he leaned out just enough to see Red Jacket finish talking and place the walkie-talkie in the bag on the desk.
A man with spiky hair came out from the server room, muttering. It wasn’t the husky voice he’d heard before; this was someone else. How many trespassers was he dealing with at this point? Two on the main floor, another in the server room, and one more on the walkie. Four at least.
The new guy kneeled, opened one of the bags on the floor, and withdrew some kind of chainsaw. It had what looked like a collector or pan attached to it. The man pulled a plastic jug of water from the same bag.
He took the chainsaw and water and returned to the server room.
The floor…was that what the chainsaw was for, cutting through the floor? Jimmy’s dad installed fire-suppression systems for a living and was a tool nut. He’d heard him talk about wet saws; that must be what he had just seen. Was there something in the floor these guys wanted, or…maybe the level below?
TechniCom.
Jimmy remembered Ross talking about the company, and he’d seen some of the employees downstairs in the coffee shop. They always wore polo shirts and khakis. The rumor was they were a university team working off of a Department of Defense grant. Whatever they were developing was top secret. No one was allowed in their work area. There had been some talk—where it came from, no one knew exactly—that the team was focused on cutting-edge learning augmentation: a direct neural interface. Kind of like virtual reality, but a giant leap forward.
Whatever TechniCom was working on, it looked like these Russians were breaking in to steal it.
Who cares? Leave it to the cops. Just hide out. If they don’t know you’re here…
All of a sudden LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” blared from the artists’ bull pen.
Fuck! It was Jimmy’s ringtone. Kim was calling. The two Russians shared a look. The man with the chainsaw said something and returned to the server room. Red Jacket walked into the artists’ bullpen and came out a second later with Jimmy’s now silent cell phone in his hand.
You gotta get out of here…
If he could just get to his vehicle. He scurried to the windows at the back of the room and looked down onto the parking lot. There was his piece-of-shit hand-me-down purple Festiva, sitting all alone save for a large, white, unmarked van. Just then another car pulled into the lot from around the back…
A cop car.
Jimmy balled his fists and had to physically restrain himself from pounding on the glass. The car passed by the van without stopping, then pulled onto the small access road and headed out toward the main street.
No!
A man emerged from the white van, holding a walkie-talkie. He pressed a button and spoke into it. His staticky voice sounded from the main floor.
There were several business buildings in this corporate park. The cop might remain close by. If only Jimmy had a way of signaling him…
He ran back to the doorway and peeked out.
Red Jacket replaced the radio in the duffel on the desk, then went to the server room and stood in the doorway. After a short conversation Red Jacket turned around, scanning the office space. Jimmy ducked back. He waited a second, runnels of sweat crawling down from his pits over his ribs. He dared to look back out and saw Red Jacket heading into the artists’ bullpen.
He’s searching the place to make sure no one’s here.
Jimmy eyed the bag on the cubicle desk. That was where the radio was. If he could get the radio, sneak out the back exit, and hide somewhere, wouldn’t he be able to use the radio to call the cops? He couldn’t run to his car because of the guy from the van…
His thoughts were cut off by the sudden sound of heavy machinery. It was the wet saw powering up. They were starting to cut. That noise should cover the sound of him opening the exit door…
Red Jacket walked out of the artists’ bullpen and into the next office on that side, a programmer’s office. There were three more of those offices and then Red Jacket would be on this side of the floor space. Jimmy’s side.
Whatever you’re going to do, do it now.
Jimmy crawled through the doorway and to the cubicle adjacent to the one with the desk and bag. There was less than an inch of clearance between the carpet and the bottom of the cubicle wall, but Jimmy was able to scrunch down and flatten his cheek against the carpet so h
e could see Red Jacket’s shoes as he walked out of the programmer’s office and into the next one.
Two offices left.
Sweat running down his face, Jimmy crawled over to the next cubicle and reached up, feeling for the bag. He reached inside but couldn’t feel the radio.
You’re gonna be seen, shit head!
He groped frantically, felt something large and metal…
Screw it, just grab the whole bag.
Jimmy scrunched the bag’s fabric together, pulled it off the table, and scooted back to the opposite cubicle.
He’s going to notice the bag’s missing when he comes out.
Once again Jimmy pressed his face to the floor. He saw the shoes again as Red Jacket walked into the last programmer’s office.
It’s now or never.
The bag was heavy and cumbersome as Jimmy snuck over to the short hallway at the rear corner opposite the server room. Once he reached the small passage, he ran, and as he pushed against the metal bar to open the door he glanced back, expecting for a heart-stopping second to see Red Jacket running toward him, gun drawn…
But there was no one. Jimmy slipped through the door and eased it closed behind him.
He turned so that he was facing the door and collapsed against the short wall that overlooked the second set of stairs, dropping the duffel on the ground. He sat quickly, still catching his breath, and looked into the open bag. His eyes grew wide and his breath caught.
So that’s why it was so heavy.
Inside the bag was a rifle. A really heavy, really real rifle. Jimmy had memorized every weapon used in RECOIL!, though they were all future-tech. Plus, he had played a ton of other first-person shooters. The rifle looked a little like what the mercenaries used in the game Cold War. He lifted the weapon out, almost reverently. He had never held a real gun of any kind before. The barrel was pretty short, and the butt part that went against his shoulder didn’t stick out like other rifles. He turned it over, and stamped on the left side was G3K A4 HK followed by some numbers.
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