“Is there a library or something near here?” he asked.
“We’re not going to the fucking library.”
“We have to go. Now. Before anyone else figures it out.”
“Figures out what?”
“That thing he said, about not being big readers. There’s got to be a book or something, or maybe an item hidden in a book.”
“Shit.” Malina dug her fists into her hips and started pacing. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. There is a library, but I’ve never been to it.”
“Where?”
She extracted the map from her pocket and tapped a small square skirting Florence’s compound. Malina had added both in ballpoint pen. “A few hundred feet from the edge of Florence’s base, from what I’ve heard. It’s a suicide mission.”
“That sounds survivable.”
Malina shook her head. “Only if you have a death wish. She has every inch of that place scouted out. Snipers everywhere. For all we know, they could even have some thermal-detecting shit.”
“For all you know, it could be someplace she barely checks, because no one could be stupid enough to get that close.”
“Nobody but you,” Malina muttered. She squinted at the map. “We could scout the neighborhood. I think I’ve seen bookshelves in a few houses.”
“We don’t have time to go looking in every house.”
Clint tilted his head; out the window, he could see smoke smearing the perfect blue sky. The faint whine of car engines reached him, as if from somewhere far away.
He tapped the center of the map. “What about the field?”
“What’s with you and suicide missions today? Shit.”
Clint just held her stare, sourly.
Malina sighed. “I already told you earlier. It’s a square mile of flat nothing. The grass is tall enough to crawl through, but anyone looking could see it move when you move. There’s a bunker hidden in the grass, I know that. But it’s been empty for ages, and Florence sends people out there every few in-game hours to make sure no one is hiding out down there.”
Clint scratched the shiny scar on his temple. “And there’s no nighttime?”
“Nope.”
He inclined his elbow on his gun, letting the shoulder strap support him. Then he pointed past the suburb and up the western edge of the circle, curving around to the north edge of the map, where the library waited. It would let them slip past Florence’s camp entirely, as long as they managed to stay out of sight from any guards.
“We have to go this way,” he said. “It’s the only direction we can go where we can hit the library without crossing into her base.”
“Do I need to repeat everything I just said to you?”
Clint held up a finger. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“You don’t have to finish. It’s a stupid plan, because there’s no exit strategy. If even one person on Florence’s side figures it out, they’ll be swarming that library like a bunch of goddamn hornets. Do you think that we can walk back all the way around the map before they chase us a couple blocks?”
“If we give them a distraction,” Clint clarified, “then we don’t have to worry about that. We’ll get their attention on something else, sneak in, find what we need, and get out.”
“And what is it we need, exactly?”
He opened and shut his mouth. Finally, he admitted, “Well. I don’t know yet.”
“So we’re going to risk our lives on a guess.”
“It’s better than jumping from house to house waiting to get shot.”
For a long, tense moment, they held each other’s stare. Malina’s green eyes searched his in disbelief.
“I hate this idea,” she said before she turned and stomped down the hall.
Clint paused there, uncertain.
Malina poked her head back into the room. “Are we trying out your terrible plan or not?”
“What are we doing for a distraction?” he asked.
“I have an idea.” When Clint walked over to her, Malina punched his shoulder, lightly. Her smile was tense and nervous. “You’re going to show me that pitch you were bragging about.”
He grinned.
Together, they wound through the maze of backyards, heading back toward Malina’s old house. The suburb curved gently to follow the shape of the map; Clint hadn’t realized it when they were first scrambling through grass and fences, when all his focus went into staying alive.
Now smoke spired thick in the sky. Florence’s crew wasn’t even trying to hide what they were doing. They were going through the houses one by one, kicking down doors, shattering windows, scouring every crevice and corner, then lighting the damn thing up when they were finished.
Even from a quarter of a mile away, Clint could hear engines bellowing and people yelling and shooting and laughing. Sometimes screaming.
Clint glanced at the player count in his HUD: 198. Florence’s gang had already slaughtered 19 people while out looking for them. Guilt and relief that he was not one of the dead warred in his belly.
When they were only a few blocks away, Clint tugged at Malina’s sleeve to get her to stop for a moment. Even from there, the smoke was needling at his eyes.
“What the hell are they doing?” he hissed.
“I get the feeling that they’re looking for us.”
“Then we don’t need to distract them, do we?” Clint said, trying to hide the edge in his voice.
Not fucking well enough, clearly, because Malina smirked at him.
“Wasn’t this your idea? Don’t tell me you’re getting all nervous, now.”
“I’m not! You’re the one who said we shouldn’t fight if we don’t have to.”
“You’re right. I did. But right now, she’s just throwing a tantrum. We want her obsessed. We need her here for as long as possible.”
Clint grimaced. She was right, no matter how much he wished she wasn’t.
They kept creeping closer. When they were only one street over from the row of burning houses, Clint could make out distinct words on the wind: this one’s empty, check the next one, hurry, before those fuckers escape.
There was that rat-in-a-field feeling again. And now they were walking right up to the hawks and giving them a good poke. The smoke burned his eyes now, like it was trying to warn him to turn back.
Gunfire rang out, rattling Clint’s nerves. Someone shrieked and went silent.
The number dropped to 197.
Malina dared a glance over the edge of the fence. “Let’s stop when we’re two houses away. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You ready for this?” She held up a fist.
Clint shoved away his fear and let adrenaline wrap around him like a cool blanket. He knocked his knuckles against hers and gave her the closest thing he had to a smile.
“As long as you’ve got my back.” He’d only known Malina for a few hours, but it already felt like a tiny piece of forever.
Malina told him, “Just try not to get us both killed.”
“That’s the best plan you’ve had all day.”
They crept closer, yard by yard, always waiting and watching to make sure no one would spot them before clambering over the next fence.
When they got to the right house, the heat off the nearest fire was so intense, Clint’s cheeks and nose stung, even as he crouched behind the fence. Everything reeked of smoke and gasoline and melting paint.
Malina pressed her eye to the space between the fence slats. This fence, luckily, had panels tight enough to hide them from view. For now, at least.
“There’s two guarding the car,” she said, her voice so soft, Clint had to press his temple against hers to hear it. “One driver inside. The rest went inside the house.”
Clint reached into his backpack’s side pocket and pulled out the grenade. “So I aim for the car. Get them all to run out.”
“Perfect.” She dipped her head toward the street to her
right. “I’ll throw the second from there. We’ll shoot any bastard left standing.”
“Nothing here,” a man’s voice hollered from the other side of the fence.
Soldiers streamed out of the house. Clint recognized Florence among them. She stalked like a lion, furious that a gazelle had escaped her.
“Wait,” Clint said.
“I know. I see them.”
Seeing all the players made his belly turn. There were at least nine or ten. They were fucked. All of this was stupid, so utterly stupid—
There was a pause, then a distinct whoosh that sounded like the air itself was roaring. A wall of heat and the sound of glass exploding outward followed after it. They must have soaked the house in gasoline, because it lit up like a matchstick.
The soldiers carried on.
Clint grimaced and stared through the fence as Florence’s gang loped, laughing like coyotes, down the sidewalk to the next house.
The car in the street crept after them. It was an open-top jeep, and the driver kept looking all over, nervous as hell.
The gang was only one house away now.
“How are you going to get over there?” Clint whispered.
“I’m smaller and faster than you. I’ll manage.”
Clint wanted to argue with the faster bit, but he shut his mouth. He just said, “I thought we weren’t doing the two-against-ten thing.”
“We’re not. It’s really just two-against-sevenish, after your grenade’s done with them.” She winked and gave him a friendly nudge with her elbow. “Come on. Let’s make Florence mad as hell.”
CHAPTER 12
C
LINT WAS SIX YEARS OLD when his father first taught him how to properly throw a baseball. He remembered standing in the backyard in his brand new little league uniform, his face small and serious, as his father held up the baseball and explained, Pitching is all about aim and force, son. If you get your aim just right, you can throw a ball darn near anywhere.
Clint wondered what his father would think now as he hunkered behind a tightly-slatted fence, pressing his eye to a gap in the wood. The grenade in his hand was heavy, nothing at all like a baseball. But he could estimate it, probably.
And if he didn’t, they would just… die. No big deal.
Clint forced himself to take slow, even breaths.
Florence was back, and she’d brought plenty of reinforcements. They poured into the house next door, moving so close that Clint could see the blood spattering their boots as they stormed inside.
All but four of them went in: three out in the driveway, scanning the street, one in the jeep, which rumbled alongside them.
He tried not to think about what Rachel would say. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine her, not now. Thinking about Rachel just made his stomach bubble with crazy, impulsive rage, at Hell, at Death, but most of all at himself.
“You ready?” Malina whispered beside him.
Clint glanced back at her and nodded.
She shrugged off her backpack and left it next to him, so she was carrying only her gun and her own grenade.
She nodded over her shoulder and said, “When they’re turned away, give me the signal.”
Without waiting for Clint’s reply, she crouch-walked across the grass, staying low, over to the half-sized gate that led out of the yard.
Clint squinted through the fence slats again. He picked up a rock beside him and rolled it between his fingers, testing the weight, gathering his nerve. He felt like an idiot rabbit teasing a pack of wolves.
He waited until all the soldiers were looking away from him before he popped the rock into the air. It volleyed up in a tall, narrow parabola: a perfect flyball. It soared high over the soldiers’ heads and plunked against the roof, rattling down the far side and skittering over a window.
The soldiers all snapped their heads toward it at once. Even the driver twisted in his seat to watch.
A woman hissed, “What the hell was that?”
One player moved instantly, decisively. He carried himself like Malina, like he’d been a soldier when he was alive. He tensed into a crouch and snapped his firearm toward the noise, turning his back to Clint.
Without a word, the man stalked forward, and the other two players followed him. They walked like a pair of skittish gazelles alongside a lion.
Clint waved urgently at Malina, a silent go go go, and she didn’t hesitate. She moved fast, faster than Clint had ever expected from someone her age. She launched herself over the fence and was gone in seconds.
He belly-crawled across the lawn and reached the fence just in time to see the rosebushes on the other side of the street tremble as Malina dove behind them.
Even though he couldn’t see her, he could imagine her lying there, belly-flat in the grass, waiting for the first scream of Clint’s grenade to start the fight.
Clint went back and watched through the fence slats as the soldiers retreated to the driveway, one of them muttering, “Probably just the fire throwing out debris or something.”
The first man, the one who’d been smart enough to look first, didn’t relax. He had an uneasy, hunted look on his face.
Clint held his breath, waiting for the guy to say something. To point at the fence and yell, Hey, there’s someone behind that.
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word.
Clint tightened his grip on the grenade. Its weight was cool and unfamiliar and deadly. His rifle hung against his back, more reassuring now than ever.
Now was the perfect time.
There was his father’s voice at the edge of his memory: just keep your eyes on the target, son, and throw as hard as you can.
When they were walking over here, Malina had told him, “If you throw it too soon, they’ll have time to run away. Don’t wait too long, or you’ll fucking kill yourself. But at least it’ll be instant.” She had laughed at the look on his face and patted his shoulder. “Count to three. You’ll be fine.”
Clint inhaled, deeply. Exhaled. Yanked the pin out of the grenade. His heart started rabbiting madly against his ribs, like it was trying to burst out of his chest.
Three. Two. One.
He hurled the grenade.
It spiraled through the air in a perfect arc and sank into the driver seat of the jeep.
The driver glanced at it. It took only a half-second for his face to shift from boredom to confusion to terror. He launched himself over the door of the jeep, screaming, “Gren—”
He only got half the word out before the car exploded outward in a wall of metal and light so dense and loud that a supersonic whistle screamed in Clint’s ears, briefly deafening everything.
Shrapnel rattled against the fence. A few shards ricocheted through the fence slats and nipped at his cheeks.
The HP bar in his vision dropped, just a fraction, down to 95/100. The bar gave a single brief pulse the moment the damage hit.
But he didn’t need his hearing to read the notification that bannered across the top of his vision: Single Kill (+25 XP) quickly replaced by Double Kill (+50 XP).
The player count dropped: 195.
Clint grinned. His skin hummed electric. It was more than adrenaline, more than just the rush of looking death in the eye and winning. His body felt like a machine, ready to spring forward and fight and win, even as the conscious part of his mind slipped away. He wondered if this was how it felt to be at war.
For a moment, he could forget the terror of dying, and fight like hell.
Clint squinted. Through the fence and the upward cloud of dust, he could see a pair of boots with stumps of leg bone jutting out from them. Beside it, a sludge of blood and body-matter smeared the blackened pavement. Obliterated on impact.
There were two dead and three left alive: the driver and a pair of soldiers, hidden behind the house. He could see the driver, just barely: a slumped-down body on the other side of the jeep. His blood pooled beneath the car.
Clint figured the heat of the house fire would drive the other two soldiers out from their hiding place behind the house, eventually.
It only took a second or two, maybe. Time felt like an overstretched rubber band. But moments or seconds later, five more people came pouring out of the house. They swarmed as frantic and maddened as piranhas smelling blood.
Florence wasn’t among them. So where the hell was she? Either she was injured, or Clint and Malina weren’t the only ones with an ambush planned.
A woman paused on the porch and barked into her walkie talkie, “We need reinforcements over here now, goddammit.”
The male soldier who’d ducked behind the house emerged now, his gun raised. Clint couldn’t shake the feeling that the soldier was staring right at him. He coiled, ready to run.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” a man snapped at the soldier.
The soldier said nothing, but the nose of his gun dipped toward the fence.
“You sure, Boots?”
“Da,” he said. Sounded Russian or Ukrainian or something. No wonder he didn’t say much.
“Shit,” Clint gasped.
He threw himself down just as bullets tore through thin plywood, showering him with splinters and smoke. Clint scrambled on his hands and knees back toward the house, with no plan other than get the fuck away.
There, out of the corner of his eye: a green blur sailed through the air, about as big as a rock.
Malina’s grenade, perfectly timed.
Florence’s soldiers were intent on turning the fence into Swiss cheese, and Clint along with it. Their gunfire didn’t even falter.
Beyond the blood thudding in his ears, Clint could hear the woman on the porch screaming at the rest of them, “Look out—”
He whipped his head around in time to see the blast blow her back into the house.
The grenade had landed near-perfectly, exploding in the center of the wasp-swarm of soldiers. A wave of heat lapped over Clint, tugging at his hair, singeing the back of his neck.
He hid his eyes in the crook of his elbow, but even in the artificial darkness, his HUD screen glowed. The player count ticked down to 192.
Three more dead. Five left, assuming no one else was in the house.
9 Levels of Hell: Volume 1 Page 7