《9 Levels of Hell - GameLit》 Level 1: Part 1 Clint expected to wake up to death. But not quite like this. He remembered everything. It played over and over in that infinite darkness that overtook him: the car, burning; Rachel, screaming; the hot waves of his own blood pouring down his neck. But she had lived. He had gotten her out of that car, used both his hands to squeeze the sputtering wound of her thigh shut until he he heard the wail of ambulances. And then Clint collapsed. He remembered realizing, as he stared at the wet pavement, he would never get up again. But when Clint opened his eyes, he saw his own bedroom ceiling. He reached up, and the gash on the side of his head was gone. He was still wearing his old Arctic Monkeys hoodie, which had been soaked in his and Rachel''s blood. "What the hell," Clint muttered. He sat up, stared across his room. And shrieked. A man in a crisp black suit sat at Clint''s desk. He held a phone that seemed to be all glass, yet it gleamed brightly in the man''s hands. "Oh," he said. "You''re awake." Clint stared around in confusion and mounting horror. "Why are you in my house?" he managed. Easiest of the questions he could ask. "Better question is why are you in your house?" "Uh. I live here?" "I can''t believe you forgot what happened yesterday." The man finally pocketed his phone. "Sorry. Work never rests." Clint clutched at his hoodie. The blood that should have been there. "What''s happening?" "You may call me Death." The man spread his thin boney fingers. "You may have heard of me. We met, yesterday. I''m the one who picked you up off the road." "Then how am I alive?" "Oh, you''re not." Death smoothed the lapels of his suit and stood to look out the window. "This is a new sort of in between I''ve devised." He smiled over his shoulder at Clint. "I''ve been trying these things called video games, you see." Clint couldn''t help his laugh. All this was too absurd, too insane. "Can you please get out of my house before I call the police?" Death turned to him and scowled. "This is not your home, Clint Whitaker. This is one of the unused levels of hell. And you are part of my new experiment." Shock and disbelief warred in Clint''s mind. He shook his head and insisted, "That''s insane. That''s not possible." "You remember dying yesterday, don''t you?" Clint nodded. "Surely resurrection is more unlikely than death." "This isn''t what I imagined death would look like." "Oh, no one ever imagines death quite right." The man walked to Clint''s bedside and smirked down at him. "But you and I are going to play a little game. We''re going to see if you can get to the castle and rescue the princess." He offered his phone to Clint. Clint reached out a shuddering hand and took it. On the screen, he saw a hospital room. And unmistakably in the bed lay Rachel in a sea of tubes and wires. "You kept her alive when you died, true." Death''s smile was wicked and delighted. "But you haven''t saved her from me yet."This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. "Are you fucking crazy? You''d kill her just as part of some stupid game?" "Yes. I''d also save her as part of some stupid game." Death walked to the door. "It''s your choice, of course. But if you do nothing, know she will die." "But what am I supposed to do?" "Escape hell. Find where I''ve hidden her." Death grinned. "Think of yourself like a modern Orpheus in reverse. If you don''t keep looking for your girl, she''s gone for good. And so are you." Clint scrambled out of bed and yelled at him, "Why the fuck are you doing this to us?" Death smiled again. "It''s quite simple. You''re interesting, and I''m bored." And then he walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. When Clint tried to follow, Death was already gone.
Clint stormed around his house, looking for tips or tools or anything he could turn into something useful, usable. He knew video games. After he graduated college and began working and seeing Rachel, he no longer had the time for it. But the logic was still there. Anything could be helpful. Clues could be anywhere. Clint scoured his apartment, throwing open drawers and cabinets and every closet he had. Though this apartment matched his real one in appearances, nearly everything was empty. His clothes were gone, his refrigerator barren. All the random little bits and baubles in the kitchen junk drawer had vanished. All Rachel¡¯s extra hair ties and bobby pins that she kept in his bathroom drawer were gone too, and he missed them more than he thought possible. In the bathroom, Clint caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked nearly like himself¡ªdark-haired, eternally scruffy, confused as all hell¡ªexcept there was a huge scar lacing his temple like a map of a river. He ran his fingers over the raised edge in disbelief. The scar tissue was shiny, smooth, undeniably there. He piled up his scant inventory on the kitchen counter, everything he had managed to scrounge up from its various hiding places: A backpack. A roll of duct tape. Another change of clothes. His jacket. Two steak knives. A compass. A couple bottles of painkillers. Bandages. A huge map with only a single circle occupying its entirety, marked on the rim with the words LEVEL ONE. Inside that first level, only Clint¡¯s house was labeled, a little red dot with a house symbol beside it. And last of all, pinned to the front door, was the List of Rules. Clint kept reading it over and over again. Hoping it would become a little less real. But every word looked like it was written in fire, the letters sharp-edged as a knife and tinged with ash:
Welcome to the first-ever Hell Game! You are one of a hundred lucky people to make it to the beta testing. There are only three rules in the Hell Game: 1) If you die, you lose. 2) If you reach the end of the ninth level, you live. 3) You may kill each other, if you like.
Clint devised a duct tape sheath for his biggest steak knife. It was a flimsy thing and looked stupid hanging off his belt, but it would keep his knife at the ready. When he stood the knife clattered against his thigh, and he thought of the way that blood had just flooded out of Rachel. He thought of the way she had gripped his wrists and cried that she didn¡¯t want to die. You won¡¯t, he told her. You won¡¯t you won¡¯t you won¡¯t. He told himself again, ¡°You won¡¯t die.¡± Half to himself. Half to Rachel, if she could hear him at all. Clint stuffed his backpack full. He placed the map in his hoodie pocket and slung on his backpack. Then, he had no choice but to open the door. It looked exactly like Earth. The air was bright and clear and carried the faraway laughter of children. But his apartment was no longer in a grimy complex on the bad side of town. It was a pleasant yellow house in a rainbow row of cottages, each one shut up tight. Clint stood on his porch for a long few seconds, staring out at the verdant lawns, the infinite blue sky. He began walking down the street. These houses looked empty and same-ish, as if someone had copy-and-pasted the same house over and over again with slightly different coloring. Clint pulled his map out of his pocket. As he walked, the outer ring of the first layer began to fill itself in. Little bricks of houses, some of them with question marks hovering over them. He paused, staring. It made sense, of course, if he remembered this was not reality, no matter how much it looked like it could be. The map updated itself as he explored. Offered him hints of where to go next. He pivoted back to the house he had just passed. It was robin¡¯s egg blue, and a cherry pie sat on the open window sill. Clint crept up the porch, the stairs groaning beneath him. He put a hand on the knob. A shot rang out from beside him, so loud that Clint didn¡¯t even hear his own yell of surprise. The porch rail behind him was splintered and gored and Clint tried not to imagine that as his head. ¡°Put your hands up,¡± he heard around the ringing in his ears. Clint put his hands up and looked out the corner of his eye at the open window. There, hidden behind the pie, was the dark muzzle of a shotgun. A woman held it, and her glare pierced him like a bullet itself. His heart began pounding, maddened. He remembered the rules. Death was possible here. Real death. And he was staring it down the barrel. The woman¡¯s finger flexed over the trigger. Level 1: Part 2 ¡°Wait!¡± Clint yelled. ¡°I¡¯m sorry! You don¡¯t have to shoot me!¡± She hissed at him, ¡°Shut the hell up. They¡¯ll hear you.¡± Clint whirled around. Scanned the cheery, sleepy little neighborhood. There wasn¡¯t another soul in sight, but he could have sworn he saw curtains twitch in the window across the street. ¡°I just woke up here,¡± he explained. ¡°I¡¯m just trying to figure out what¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°Figure it out somewhere else.¡± The roar of a car engine resounded somewhere behind Clint. He flattened himself against the door and tried to crouch low. Over the rail of the woman¡¯s porch, he could see a truck coming down the road, full of people. He saw the glint of guns rested on knees, and every head craned and turned like they were looking for anyone caught outside without a weapon. Clint clutched at the handle of his knife. ¡°Oh, shit,¡± murmured the woman at the window. She started to lower her window shut. ¡°You¡¯d better run, buddy.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°That¡¯s Florence¡¯s gang.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t die in here,¡± he said, his voice rising to a panicked pitch. He twisted hard at the doorknob, which was firmly locked. ¡°I have to save my girlfriend. If I die, she dies.¡± He didn¡¯t pause to explain himself, but he didn¡¯t have to. The woman stared at him like she was seeing him for the first time. The door opened a crack. Clint dove inside and slammed it shut. His hand hit the woman¡¯s as they reached together to flick the deadbolt over. ¡°Follow me,¡± she said, army-crawling across the floor. She had a heavy camping backpack on, full to the brim. When she moved he could hear the vague rattle of metal on metal from inside. ¡°Basement,¡± she explained. ¡°Now. They¡¯re looters.¡± ¡°Looters?¡± ¡°Jesus, did you literally just join today?¡± The woman scoffed and kept going. Clint dropped to his knees and followed her, feeling ridiculous. But then from far away he heard the rattle of a gun and someone¡¯s muffled shriek. The woman paused to wrestle a mangled copy of the Rules out of her cargo pants pocket. Only the number had now changed: 99. Another cry of bullets. As she folded the Rules back up, the number blurred and faded to 98. ¡°Shit! How many people were here in the first place?¡± ¡°Two hundred and fifty.¡± She paused in the kitchen to push open the back door. Clint almost questioned why, until he realized: she wanted to look as if she had tried to escape. ¡°I¡¯m surprised Death¡¯s adding anyone new.¡± Clint shrugged. ¡°He said I¡¯m interesting.¡± ¡°He says that to everyone.¡± Clint tried not to look as put off as he felt by that. The woman flipped her rug back to reveal a trapdoor sunk into the floor. She heaved it open and told him, ¡°You¡¯re going to have to pull the rug back over when you shut the hatch. Try to make it not look folded to shit.¡± Clint instantly wanted to smack himself for not thinking to move any rugs or furniture, wondered how much hidden help he had left in his own home. But there wasn¡¯t enough time to worry about that. The woman tossed her backpack down into the darkness and followed after it. The crunch of tires resounded from the driveway. Through the open window, he heard men and women talking. Harsh bark of someone¡¯s laughter. Clint went down after her. He held onto the corner of the rug and tugged it as neatly over the trapdoor as he could. As he let the trapdoor click shut, he heard the woman¡¯s front door bang open. In the darkness, he could hear only the creak and groan of boots clunking overhead. For a moment, he froze there at the top of the ladder. Just listening. Then the woman yanked at the bottom of his jeans, and he kept climbing down. The cellar smelled wet and warm, and when his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he could nearly make out the shape of shelves lining the walls. She had stacks of canned food, bottled water, boxes of shotgun shells. The woman was grabbing those, cramming them in her backpack. She whirled toward him and grabbed his shoulder, pressed her mouth to his ear to whisper quiet as a breath, ¡°Do you have a gun?¡± He shook his head, quickly. She cursed and kicked at the air, noiselessly. Then reached behind her shelf and offered him a semi-automatic pistol. It was cold and heavier than he expected. ¡°Do you know how to shoot?¡± Again, Clint shook his head.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. The feet crisscrossed back and forth overhead. Cabinet doors banged open, and boxes hit the floor as the men scavenged. The woman was so close he could smell her sweat and fear. He clutched the gun and felt the hot tickle of her frustrated breath against his neck. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to figure it out,¡± she muttered. ¡°I have a plan.¡±
Clint sat there alone at the bottom of the ladder. One hand held his gun trained at the ceiling overhead. The other held only a can of fruit cocktail. Sweat coursed down his forehead and his arms trembled. He watched as the woman pushed open the storm doors. She flooded the basement with light, and he saw how dim and dirty it really was. He wiped his damp palms off in his pants and grabbed his gun again. The woman offered him a thumbs up before shutting the door silently behind her. He was supposed to wait exactly a minute. He began counting as softly as he could¡ªone one thousand, two one thousand¡ªhis tongue tracing the shape of the words so no one would overhear. Exactly a minute, and then he only had to make a sound. The footsteps were no longer overhead, not really. They seemed to be coming from all over the house. The ceiling overhead shuddered constantly with the weight of their feet and the crash of the woman¡¯s things that the looters flung to the floor, looking for something they could use. When he reached sixty, Clint froze for a moment. His panic was a hot thick bulb in his throat, choking him. But he thought of Rachel. He thought of the way she looked in that room, so close to death. If you do nothing, he told himself, she¡¯ll die. And there¡¯s no point to anything if she¡¯s gone. Clint lifted the can over his shoulder and heaved at the stack of tin cans and jarred preserves with all his strength. The cans fell clattering, and the glass shattered, and overhead all the boots burst into the kitchen. ¡°What the hell was that?¡± barked a woman¡¯s voice. A stranger. She sounded as if she was the boss, because no one offered her a good answer right away. Florence. That¡¯s what the woman had called her. The nervous tension made the air so thick that Clint could feel it hardening in his lungs. ¡°You told me there¡¯s no one here.¡± ¡°There isn¡¯t,¡± a man stammered. Florence scoffed. ¡°You think a fucking ghost made that noise, boy? There is a basement. Find the opening. Now.¡± Before those feet could move, Clint heard the dense boom of the woman¡¯s shotgun. It went off again, and with the second shot he heard the first body hit the floor, and then another. Machine guns began screaming, tearing into the kitchen walls. Something ceramic shattered. Clint plunged up the steps with his gun in one hand. He heaved open the trap door and shot the man staring at him, too shocked to raise his gun in time. The gun seemed to explode in his hands, the bullet leaping out so fast that the gun nearly snapped back and hit Clint in the head. But he kept his arms stiff and straight and shot the man again as he opened his mouth in mute horror, catching him in the throat this time. He fell, cutting an arc of bullets into the kitchen cabinets, the ceiling. Clint grabbed his boot and pulled him down into the basement. The man and his machine gun clattered to the floor. He leaped down after them. A tremendous pain shot through his ankle when he hit the floor, and the earth around him exploded in little clouds of gunfire. He wrestled the gun off the man¡¯s shoulder, raised it, and shot wildly through the floorboards overhead. At the back of his mind, he wondered if that woman was still alive. Wondered if she¡¯d been mowed down in a hail of gunfire before he¡¯d ever even learned her name. But the reassuring thunder of her shotgun told him she was still alive, at the very least. Blood began dripping down through the floorboards, dripping over him like a leaky roof on a rainy night. The gang¡¯s leader called, her voice crackling with rage, ¡°Fall back, fall back! Get back to the car!¡± Clint leapt up the ladder in time to see three people fleeing: the woman who could only be Florence and two men flanking her. They all carried backpacks and semiautomatic rifles, which they hugged to their chests as they fled. The woman¡¯s kitchen was ruined. The windows were piles of broken glass scattered across the sink and floor. The cabinets splintered, riddled with bullets. Three men lay dead on the floor, their blood pooling all around them. And the woman stood in the threshold of the back door, clutching her bleeding arm. She offered Clint a manic grin. ¡°Well done,¡± she told him. ¡°I honestly didn¡¯t think that would work.¡± Clint¡¯s stressed unspooled out of him in an impossible peal of laughter. ¡°Then why the fuck did you ask me to do it?¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t want to die. I have someone to save too, you know.¡± She shrugged and knelt before the dead men. With her good arm, she began digging through their pockets. ¡°Help me search them.¡± A hundred questions leapt to Clint¡¯s mind. He wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but her grimace and the blood soaking her coat sleeve stopped him. ¡°How badly did they get you?¡± ¡°Not bad. Just grazed me. Like a little bee sting.¡± She produced a plastic baggie of bandages from one of the men¡¯s pockets and grinned. She slapped a thick wad of gauze over her arm and began wrestling the medical tape around it. Clint reached over and helped her tie it on, wordlessly. He had never slowed down to look at her closely before this. Her dark hair was streaked with silver threads, her face fierce and flickering like a fire. In the light he saw that her skin was smooth and brown as an avocado seed. She was old enough to be his mother, and she looked him over like he was helpless. Together they searched the bodies. In the man¡¯s backpack they found matches, a blanket, a dented can of beer. The woman nodded over her shoulder toward the basement. Her eyes caught the light: deep mottled green. ¡°Check what he¡¯s got.¡± Clint stared at the black opening of the basement. It seemed like the mouth of a demon now. He tried not to show how badly he was shuddering as he climbed down the steps. The man lay there face down on the floor, his blood pouring out of him. Clint stood at the edge of the pool, nausea rising in his belly. He had killed a man. True, the man had been trying to kill him, but his life ended for the last time the second that Clint chose to squeeze that trigger one more time. He hoped no one else in this game was like him. That he¡¯d only killed one person today, and not robbed someone else¡¯s Rachel of her chance at life. The woman descended the ladder behind him. She peered over his shoulder and asked, ¡°What did you find?¡± Clint just shrugged and stared. She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Tried on a ghost of a smile. ¡°You did the right thing.¡± ¡°I know.¡± But he couldn¡¯t bring himself to move. The woman stepped into the blood. It lapped thick and tacky around the soles of her boots. She crouched to feel the man¡¯s pockets, his backpack. She tossed Clint everything she found: a pocketknife, a few boxes of ammunition, an extra empty magazine ¡°Fifty-five rounds,¡± the woman told him when she offered him the bullets. ¡°Don¡¯t waste them.¡± Then she stepped out of the blood, leaving the shape of her shoes behind. She made for the storm doors. ¡°It looks like it¡¯s time for the both of us to move on, anyway.¡± ¡°Can I go with you?¡± Clint heard his voice rise nervously. He felt silly asking, like a child. But the woman gave him a real smile this time. ¡°I had hoped you would.¡± He followed her out to the road. Level 1: Part 3 The woman introduced herself officially by tossing the leftover bandage at him and saying, ¡°My name¡¯s Malina. You can help me put the bodies in the basement.¡± Clint looked between her and the people in horror. They felt alive, or something like that. Their bodies were flesh-heavy and limp and when they hit the ground they made a sound like soup in a plastic bag. Clint leaned over the hole and retched. ¡°How are we supposed to get the food out of there now?¡± ¡°Food doesn¡¯t mean anything in this game.¡± ¡°Then why do you have so much of it?¡± Malina smirked sideways at him. ¡°I thought it did, on my first day. I don¡¯t know how many trips across that damn road I wasted carrying shit I¡¯d never get hungry for.¡± They got to the fourth and last body. Clint picked the man up by his shoulders, wincing as the shattered remains of his skull smeared scarlet gore all over his sweater. He gasped through his teeth and asked, ¡°How long have you even been doing this?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. There¡¯s no time in here, not really.¡± She swung her injured left arm forward and backward, as if testing the ache of it. ¡°It¡¯s always day time. The weather changes, once in a while. And sometimes they come hunting up and down the street. Usually, I don¡¯t have any shouty idiots on my porch getting their attention.¡± Clint almost replied, Well, I¡¯m not the one who fired a shotgun, but he bit back his sharpness. Instead he said, ¡°You called her Florence.¡± ¡°She¡¯s been here as long as I have. She amassed the biggest collection of guns and beer and boys.¡± Malina shrugged. ¡°People found out real quick that you either join Florence, or she kills you.¡± ¡°What happens when she runs out of people to kill? When it¡¯s just her people left?¡± ¡°Oh, I think she¡¯s close to finding out.¡± Malina kicked open her back door, leaving behind a scarlet shoe print. The men¡¯s trailing gore carried their tracks all through the living room, dining room, kitchen. It would have looked like a house from a Norman Rockwell painting if it weren¡¯t for all that blood. ¡°I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll get rabid on each other. That¡¯s the point of this game, anyway.¡± ¡°Is it?¡± Clint¡¯s heart pulsed hard against his ribs. Every time he let himself think about Rachel, he felt as if the world was dipping away from him. He managed, ¡°So how do we get to the next level?¡± ¡°No one knows.¡± ¡°Are you serious?¡± Malina whirled on him. "What kind of question is that? If I knew how to get to the second level, I wouldn''t still be here." She just rolled her eyes and kept going before he could answer. Her backyard was neatly coiffed, the garden full of bright sighing flowers and bees. Tire tracks gouged twin snakes through the grass, and her entire eastern wall of fencing had been struck down and lay in a dented heap on the earth. She walked through the big gap in the fence, crouching low. Her thick curls sat in a tall, tight bun on her head, and she had to fold down low to keep her hair from peeking over the top of the fence. ¡°Where are we going?¡± Malina took her map out of her pocket and offered it to Clint, wordlessly. ¡°Every marked house is one that Florence and her buddies use for an outpost.¡± Clint stared down at the map. She had filled in the entire inner rim of the first level of hell. The little houses were drawn in squares of yellow and blue and green, like the edging of a blanket. Random ones were marked with dark penciled Xs. Rachel had loved to crochet. (No, he corrected himself. Loves. Rachel is present tense.) It looked like one of her strange and lovely patterns, random and ordered at the same time, somehow. She was so good at color. That¡¯s what he thought of, when he closed his eyes and tried to imagine her. Her bright green eyes. All her colors, and the way she wore the light.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The faraway rattle of bullets snapped Clint back to the present moment. Malina paused, bent down in front of him, just listening. She held out her hand wordlessly behind her, and Clint paused for a moment before handing her map back. He fished his own out of his hoodie pocket. Malina¡¯s house was colored in a bright blue. He had only a sliver of the houses that she had. ¡°Where¡¯s your place?¡± she muttered at him. Clint just stared for a moment. Then pointed at the yellow house just a few blocks away from them. Together they crawled through backyards and clambered over white picket fences. Once, when they passed through someone¡¯s yard, one of the curtains in the back window twitched in the corner of Clint¡¯s eye. He twisted his head around to see a girl glaring through the glass at them. Her pistol watched them like a periscope as they passed, but she didn¡¯t try to stop them. His own backyard was empty, the tall fence unbroken. Clint pulled out his map and watched the new areas spread like an ink stain across the paper. And already they were back at the first spot that had ever been on his map. For a moment he and Malina paused there, backs pressed against the fence. He murmured to her, ¡°How do you tell if anyone¡¯s in there?¡± The woman cracked open her shotgun and checked the bullets. Smoothed her thumb over them as if for good luck. Then she snapped the gun shut and gave Clint a tight, tired smile. ¡°We go inside, honey. How else do you think?¡± She squeezed Clint¡¯s forearm reassuringly when she saw the look in his eye. ¡°The trick is to check the walls by the door as you¡¯re walking in. They like to hide in corners, or just around the frame.¡± Clint didn¡¯t need to ask who. Not anymore. He knew now that the other players were a bigger threat than he had ever imagined. They crept into the house back-to-back. Malina lead the way, her shotgun snuffing out the closest corners of the before she even stepped all the way inside. Then she and Clint both crept through the back door. His tennis shoes felt eerily loud against the laminate, as if he was announcing himself with every step. Together they scoured every room of his little house and found nothing and no one. ¡°Do you have a basement or an attic?¡± Clint stared at her, blankly, until Malina rolled her eyes and pressed, ¡°Everyone has at least one. It¡¯s where most of your loot is. I have a theory that Florence got both, lucky twat.¡± Her scowl was irritated, as if Florence had taken too many free cookies, not hoarded every gun she could find. ¡°We¡¯ll find it. Come on.¡± Clint hurried after her. ¡°Move shit,¡± she explained. ¡°If you had an attic it¡¯d be obvious. They always like to hide the basement under rugs or furniture.¡± Together, they heaved aside the couch. Malina grinned at the trapdoor hiding underneath. She heaved it open and pulled a flashlight out of her pocket. It speared the darkness, revealing nothing but more shadows still. There seemed to be shelves down there, boxes, but Clint couldn¡¯t pick out much more. ¡°After you,¡± Malina told him. They descended into the darkness together. Malina scanned her flashlight around and cried out in delight when she saw a lantern sitting on the shelf. She flicked it on, and it filled the room with a dim orange glow. ¡°Solar-powered,¡± she explained to him. ¡°That¡¯s decent. I¡¯m surprised it has a charge.¡± ¡°Why did you help me?¡± Malina paused and stared at him. She leaned back against the shelves and shrugged. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I?¡± ¡°You seemed pretty happy to let me die for a few moments there.¡± That made the woman laugh. It was a broken sound, joyless and hollow. She palmed the sweat away from her forehead. ¡°Death has my son.¡± Her dark eyes were shiny and unreadable as a stone. ¡°He¡¯s eleven.¡± ¡°Oh, god. Shit. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± ¡°Why? You didn¡¯t do anything.¡± Malina turned away from him and flicked her flashlight over the shelves. He pretended not to notice her raise her hand to smear at her eyes. ¡°The point is, I¡¯m not in this for me, either.¡± She glanced over her shoulder at him. ¡°So we might as well stick together.¡± Clint felt like reaching out and crushing her in a hug. But he only stood there nodding, his gun heavy in his back pocket. He wanted to tell her about Rachel and the way she sounded when she said his name or the way she looked at him like no one ever had. But he couldn¡¯t describe any of that any more than he could describe the feeling of clear cold air. It was life and everything and without her he would be lost. So he said instead, ¡°Let¡¯s see what kind of shit Death decided to give me.¡± Level 1: Part 4 They piled up everything they found in the center of the room. Clint felt like a massive idiot when Malina reached onto one of the bottom shelves and produced an AK-47 and three spare boxes of ammunition. The gun clattered against the concrete floor as she tossed it down. ¡°This,¡± she told him, sternly, ¡°is why we always look thoroughly in this game. Neither one of us can afford to die.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to lecture me,¡± Clint muttered, embarrassed. ¡°Yes, I do. If you had looked better, I might not have gotten shot.¡± And she skirted past him to check the other shelf. Clint tried not to let his irritation show. A dozen counterarguments rose and died on his tongue. He understand her intensity. He''d be just as mad if she''d almost cost him Rachel. So he palmed the anger out of his eyes and held his hand there for a moment, just breathing. He said, ¡°Do you think she¡¯s going to come back for us?¡± ¡°Oh, almost certainly.¡± Malina picked through the stack, tossing aside things she randomly declared unimportant: water and food, shirts, a can of pepper spray. Clint grabbed one of the shirts off the ground and replaced his ruined sweater with it. This shirt was plain black, long-sleeved, and not coated with a stranger¡¯s brain matter, which made it infinitely better than his hoodie already. ¡°We¡¯d be best off going clear to the other side of the level.¡± She glanced at her watch. ¡°I don¡¯t even know why I wear this damn thing. It resets itself every time you look at it.¡± ¡°What? Why?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe to fuck with us. I¡¯ve learned Death loves to fuck with us.¡± She stared down at her watch again, but she didn¡¯t take it off. As though there was a comfort there in the ghost of normalcy. ¡°Where should we go?¡± Clint ventured. ¡°We¡¯ll find an empty house. Huddle down until she stops her roving parties.¡± Malina offered Clint the gun and asked him, ¡°Do you recognize this?¡± ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s a gun.¡± Malina rolled her eyes. ¡°This is an AK-47.¡± She tapped a lever on the side and flipped it up. ¡°Safety on.¡± Flipped it down. ¡°Safety off. Don¡¯t fucking point it at yourself or me when you¡¯re checking it. Actually, just don¡¯t point it at anything you don¡¯t want to kill.¡± She put the switch back up. She showed him how to remove the magazine (empty), how to refill it with the bullets big as Clint¡¯s pinky and sharp as a fang. Clint watched her with mute fascination and dread. He still remembered the way the light in that man¡¯s eyes had gone from bright and drawn with shock to nothing at all. How little time it had taken him to waste to death on the floor of that basement. ¡°What¡¯s that look for?¡± she asked. ¡°Are you scared of guns, now?¡± ¡°No. No, it¡¯s not that.¡± Clint took the gun from her and slung it over his shoulder. The weight grounded and terrified him all at once. It was a promise and a threat: he could keep himself safe, but he may have to kill somebody again. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ I¡¯ve never killed anyone before.¡± Malina snorted at him. ¡°Do I seem like a hardened killer or something?¡± ¡°No! No. It¡¯s just¡­ it¡¯s a lot.¡± She gripped Clint¡¯s shoulders, firmly, and stared at him hard until he met her eyes. ¡°Look,¡± she said. ¡°Everyone in here is already dead. You¡¯re not killing anybody.¡± ¡°I¡¯m stopping someone from being able to go back to life.¡± ¡°Yeah, an asshole who tried to kill you for no reason.¡± ¡°I¡¯m an asshole who actually killed a guy for no reason,¡± Clint muttered. Malina punched his chest. ¡°Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You know you had to do it, and if you waste all this time mourning some random dickhead with a gun you¡¯ll never get out of here.¡± Clint stared down at her, injured. ¡°What? Do you want a fucking sympathy card? It¡¯s not a tragedy if you kill someone who was fully intending to murder you.¡± She slung off her own backpack and began stuffing it with a few packages of bandages. ¡°Start packing up. We have to keep moving.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Clint dropped to his knees beside her and started filling all the pockets of his backpack. Malina divided everything up more or less evenly between them, though she didn¡¯t offer him either of the grenades that she found. Instead she tossed him the bottles of opiates, the little container of rubbing alcohol, and the bulletproof vest, which was dusty and felt too flimsy to really stop a bullet, but he supposed it had to be better than nothing. Clint strapped it over his chest tightly. He asked her, trying not to sound tense, ¡°Do you know how to use a grenade?¡± ¡°Better than you do. You barely know how to use a gun.¡± ¡°Hey, I was pretty good at baseball, back in high school.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t a baseball.¡± ¡°I understand the general concept.¡± Malina snorted. She pulled one of the grenades out of her backpack¡¯s side pocket and slapped it into his hand. ¡°Prove it sometime, kiddo.¡± ¡°I¡¯m twenty-three,¡± he said under his breath. ¡°Yeah.¡± She smirked, elbowed his ribs. ¡°Kiddo.¡± Clint couldn¡¯t help his smile. The tension unwound from his shoulders like barbed wire unhooking itself from his skin. He followed Malina out the back door. ¡°It will take us a few hours.¡± Malina regarded her broken, useless watch again. Smiled over her shoulder at Clint, but the light of it never reached her eyes. ¡°It takes a while to walk all the way around the map, particularly if we don¡¯t want to be seen.¡± He remembered the shitty old jeep that Florence and her gang had been in. He ventured, ¡°Is there some way to find a car like they had?¡± She cackled. ¡°Florence¡¯s. She¡¯s got everything with wheels in this goddamn level.¡± Malina flipped open her map and tapped the far northern edge of the circles, where the houses grew sparse, and the map had only a few ticked lines that looked like grass. A huge swath was boxed and scratched out in thick graphite. ¡°That¡¯s her main base.¡± Malina tapped the center of the rectangle. ¡°If you go there, you¡¯ll die close enough to instantly.¡± Clint sighed through his teeth. ¡°Then I guess we¡¯re walking.¡± They walked together, setting out west, away from Malina¡¯s home. The sun was bright and hot in the sky, but it never seemed to move. It only hung there, watching them. For a long time, they walked in silence through backyards and flowerbeds. At one point Clint heard the faraway wail of an engine and pulled Malina down before she fully noticed. They crouched down behind a shed as a pair of jeeps packed with men roared past them, never stopping or slowing. ¡°They¡¯ll start fanning out once they¡¯ve realized we¡¯re not there.¡± Malina looked anxiously over her shoulder, even though they were too far now to see her house. Clint pulled his map out of his pocket and looked it over. He¡¯d managed to fill barely a quarter of his circle, and even though there were at least forty or fifty little squares of houses standing between him and Malina¡¯s home, but it didn¡¯t seem like nearly enough space. They kept going, moving quickly now. Clint gripped his rifle by the handguard. The metal was smooth, cold, reassuring. Even if he didn¡¯t want to shoot somebody, he could. And there was safety in that. Malina was the one to notice the smoke. Clint was looking only forward, scouring every fleeing shadow for the hint of another human being. But she grabbed his elbow and pointed backwards. A thick black column of smoke was rising into the air in the distance. ¡°They¡¯re trying to burn us out,¡± she muttered. ¡°It won¡¯t be long until they realize we¡¯re not there.¡± Clint watched the smoke spread like a warning. He swung his rifle around so he could hold it in both hands, the butt nestled against his shoulder. But he kept the muzzle pointed down toward the earth, his finger firmly off the trigger. ¡°What do we do, then?¡± Malina scoffed. ¡°Are you going to try to be a two-against-ten?¡± ¡°Well, no¡ª¡± ¡°Then obviously we¡¯re going to hide.¡± They were in another random backyard, and the suburban maze felt so thick that Clint could barely make sense of it anymore. If it weren¡¯t for his map, he would have been lost hours ago, looping through backyard after backyard, trying to remember which little cottage he¡¯d been to last. But Malina strode confidently to the back door, which was a pleasant yellow thing with gingham curtains. (Rachel would have declared it so cute.) She rattled the handle. When it didn¡¯t move, she raised a boot and kicked it down. A couple of the glass panes popped and shattered, and the frame splintered. The door swung inward. Malina hollered inside, ¡°We¡¯re not here to hurt you! Florence¡¯s gang is trying to fucking murder us.¡± ¡°Is there anyone even here?¡± Clint whispered, anxiously, lifting his gun up. ¡°I don¡¯t know. But I¡¯d be sure as hell about to shoot anyone who kicked down my back door.¡± Malina glanced over her shoulder and shied away from Clint and his rifle. ¡°What did I tell you about not pointing that shit at people you don¡¯t want to kill?¡± Clint flustered and decided not to argue. This house was small and pleasant and reminded him distinctly of his grandmother¡¯s house. There were patterned tea towels, frames of pressed flowers, family pictures of strangers. Clint watched the faces as he passed and wondered if they were dead or alive. They swept through the first floor of the house and found nothing. The second floor was equally barren, barring a single toothbrush sitting on the bathroom sink. He left it there and met Malina in the hallway. ¡°There¡¯s an attic,¡± she told him. ¡°I want you to cover me, and I¡¯ll check it out.¡± Clint bit his lip, hard. ¡°Is that the safest idea?¡± ¡°Oh, are you worried about me?¡± Her smile was charmed and derisive. Before Clint could argue, the television downstairs turned itself on. They both froze at the crackle and pop of static. Malina pressed a finger to her lips. She raised her shotgun and crept back down the hallway to the top of the stairs. Clint followed her, trying to velvet his steps. He watched the line of Malina¡¯s shoulders, trying to see from her body language if anyone was there before he turned the corner with her. But the living room was empty. The television screen swelled with flickering black and white. ¡°What the fuck,¡± Malina started. And then Death appeared on the screen. He looked distinctly disappointed. ¡°Honestly,¡± he said, ¡°I thought you humans would be much faster at this. No one¡¯s even gotten close to the second level yet.¡± He spread his hands and smiled, generously. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s time I gave you a hint.¡± Level 1: Part 5 The lord of hell sat with his fingertips pressed together, scowling through the television as if he could really see Clint there. And for a moment, Clint believed that he somehow could. Death¡¯s suit was sky blue, his tie a sheeny grey. His cuff links gleamed, little silver-dipped vertebrae. He said, ¡°While I admire your uniquely human dedication to that spirit of kill-or-be-killed, you all have missed the mark utterly. None of you are big readers, it seems.¡± Beside him, Malina¡¯s fingers tapped out a restless pattern on her arm. She chewed hard at her lip and watched Death with a look that was fear and resentment both. ¡°I will tell you this much: if you waste all your time murdering each other, you¡¯ll never get to the next level.¡± He tugged down the sleeves of his suit and offered them a brief, hollow smile. ¡°I have faith, but it is dwindling.¡± Death pulled his phone out of his pocket, regarded the screen, and muttered under his breath, ¡°God, dammit.¡± Then he smirked at the screen once more. ¡°Don¡¯t let me down.¡± The image froze there, and Death said nothing more. Malina kicked hard at the television. The glass shattered, splitting Death¡¯s smile underneath. She was cursing and shouting at the screen, ¡°What is that supposed to mean?¡± Clint stared hard at Death¡¯s cracked smirk. ¡°He means go find a bookshelf.¡± ¡°A bookshelf.¡± ¡°Is there a library or something near here?¡± ¡°We¡¯re not going to the fucking library.¡± Hope lifted in Clint¡¯s chest. Bright buzz of an epiphany. ¡°We have to go. Now. Before anyone else figures it out.¡± ¡°The library is right next to Florence¡¯s base.¡± She extracted the map from her pocket and tapped a small square only a few inches from the base on the map. It looked as if the library was just at the edge of Florence¡¯s compound. ¡°She took over the school. And the library is barely two blocks away.¡± ¡°Two blocks is livable.¡± Malina snorted. ¡°Yeah, but we have to walk either right through her base or back through here.¡± She ran her finger along the southeastern edge of the circle. They would have to pass her house, which meant somehow evading Florence¡¯s hounds, who were blood-hungry now and not about to give up that easily. ¡°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 gathering in 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, which was unmarked. ¡°What about here?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the field. If you go out there you¡¯re asking to die, basically.¡± When Clint just stared at her, blankly, Malina sighed and explained, ¡°It¡¯s a square mile of flat nothing. The grass is tall enough to crawl through, you know, 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 day or so to make sure no one is hiding out down there.¡±This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Clint scratched hard at the back of his head. ¡°And there¡¯s no nighttime?¡± ¡°Not here.¡± He inclined his elbow on his gun, letting the shoulder strap support him. Then he pointed around the long end of the circle that would bring them up around the western edge of the circle, skirting Florence¡¯s camp, to go straight for the library. ¡°We go this way,¡± he said. ¡°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. 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 all the way around the map before they get two 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 managed, ¡°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 tense, long moment they held each other¡¯s stare. Malina¡¯s green eyes searched his in disbelief. Finally she managed, ¡°I hate this idea.¡± She turned and stomped down the hall. Clint paused there, uncertain. Malina poked her head back into the room. ¡°Are we trying out your death wish or not?¡± ¡°What are we doing for a distraction?¡± he ventured. ¡°I have a plan.¡± 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 back through the maze of backyards, heading south-east again. The suburb curved gently to follow the shape of the map; Clint had not quite realized it when they were scrambling through grass and fences, just hoping to stay alive. Now the smoke was a thick column in the sky, and the hum of engines was so loud that even from a quarter of a mile away, Clint could hear the cars and the people hollering at one another, cursing and shooting and laughing. Clint checked his copy of the Rules. He and Malina were still alive, but the survivor count had dwindled to ninety already. He wondered how many people Florence¡¯s gang caught out looking for them. Guilt and relief that he was not one of the dead warred in his belly. They were close enough now to make out distinct words on the wind. The men were going down the houses one by one, kicking down doors, shattering windows, routing out every crevice and corner. As Clint stared at the rules, a gun rang out in the clear sky. Someone shrieked, and went silent. The number dropped to eighty-nine. They were only ten houses down. Adrenaline pounded against Clint¡¯s skull. Malina poked her head over the fence and ducked back down again. ¡°There¡¯s two guarding the car. The rest went inside the house. You¡¯re going to have to throw one at the car¡±¡ªshe fished her grenade out of her backpack pocket to show him¡ª¡°and wait for them to start running out. Then I¡¯ll throw the second from over there.¡± She pointed across the street. ¡°And your job is to shoot any fucker that¡¯s still standing.¡± ¡°How the hell are you going to get over there?¡± ¡°I¡¯m smaller and faster than you. I¡¯ll manage.¡± Clint wanted to argue with the faster bit, but he shut his mouth. He said only, ¡°I thought we weren¡¯t doing the two-against-ten thing.¡± ¡°We¡¯re not. It¡¯s really just two-against-eight.¡± She winked and gave him a friendly nudge with her elbow. ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s make Florence mad as hell.¡± Level 1: Part 6 Clint hunkered behind the wall and watched as Malina stole across the street. She knelt down low against the side of the house, hidden from their sight only by a dense rosebush. When the men turned away, their calm conversation carried on the wind, Malina burst out of her hiding place. She was fast, faster than Clint had expected for someone her age. She skittered across within seconds, and by the time the guards turned back around, she had already dove behind the flowerbed across the street. Clint could no longer see her. She had to be belly-flat in the grass, gasping there, barely daring to move. He leaned against the fence, watching the men through the slats of the posts. The grenade in his hand was a cool, unfamiliar weight. His rifle hung against his belly, more reassuring now than ever. Clint inhaled, deeply. Exhaled. Yanked the pin out of the grenade. Stared at it for a couple of seconds, his heart rabbiting against his ribs. Just before she dashed across the street, Malina had told him, ¡°If you throw it too soon, they¡¯ll have time to run away. But don¡¯t wait too long or you¡¯ll fucking kill yourself.¡± And she had laughed and patted his shoulder. ¡°Count to three. You¡¯ll be fine.¡± He hurled the grenade. It spiraled through the air in a perfect arc and sunk into the driver seat of the jeep. Neither one of the men even looked. Clint watched, counting seconds in his head, and moments later the car exploded outward. He had to close his eyes against the dense blinding heat of it; shrapnel rattled against the fence. When he opened his eyes again, the men and the car were just husks of themselves: a blackened metal frame, two pairs of boots with ruined shins protruding out. Right on time, six more people came pouring out of the house. One of them, a woman, barked into her walkie talkie for reinforcements. Malina¡¯s grenade soared through the perfect blue sky. The people were too busy scouring the ruined jeep to think to look behind them. Only the person still standing on the porch screamed at the rest of them, ¡°Grena¡ª¡± but the blast blew him back into the house before he could finish his sentence. Clint vaulted himself over the fence. Adrenaline sent him up and over and solidly back on his feet again. He did not stop to wonder at how he¡¯d done that without fucking it up. He only raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bullets rattling out pushed the muzzle of the gun up and away, and the line of bullets wobbled uncertainly until Clint¡¯s aching arms locked up and the rifle steadied. He just held down the trigger and did his best to aim. Only two people were still standing. Three more lay pooling blood, dead or dying. One of them had a huge chunk of his skull ripped out and still crawled gasping over the pavement for his gun. Clint aimed at the rest of his skull. Tried to pretend this was just a video game, and this was not a real human really trying to claw their way back to life. He squeezed the trigger. But it only clicked, metal on metal. He smacked the magazine out with the heel of his hand, fumbled for the ammunition in his side pocket. His pulse pounded so hot in his head he could hear nothing but the thum thum thum of his own blood. His ear drums were a wall of shrieking static. Then the man¡¯s head exploded like a dropped watermelon and his body collapsed limply to the ground. Milliseconds later, the crack of Malina¡¯s shotgun shattered the air. Clint felt it reveberate once, twice, and he raised his eyes to see Malina flick the two spent shells out and jam two more in. Only one of Florence¡¯s gang still stood. And she had her machine gun trained straight at Clint. He threw himself to the ground, but the bullet caught him in the chest. It hit him like a punch, and he just lay there on the grass, gasping in disbelief, until the boom of Malina¡¯s shotgun snapped him back to the present. He crammed bullets into the empty magazine. And when he sat up, his own dark blood stained the grass. ¡°Malina,¡± he said, woozily. He pushed himself to his feet and retched stomach acid into the grass. Someone rubbed his back in reassuring circles. For a split second, he wanted to shove the end of his rifle into their belly and squeeze the trigger. But when he turned his head he saw only Malina. ¡°Come on,¡± she told him, gently. ¡°We have to keep going.¡± ¡°I think I got fucking shot.¡± ¡°You did. It will heal. You heal quickly here.¡± She unzipped the back pouch of Clint¡¯s backpack and rattled out a few pills into her palm. She placed the rest of the bottle back in his bag. ¡°Here. It helps take the edge off. Moves things along a bit quicker.¡± Clint threw the pills back. He wanted to pause and wonder at the bleeding hole in his upper chest, but Malina took his hand and pulled him back toward the backyard they¡¯d come from. ¡°We have to hurry,¡± she told him. ¡°One of them radioed for help.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t good,¡± Clint muttered. ¡°It¡¯s better than it could have been.¡± Malina picked up the magazine he¡¯d almost left in the grass and clicked it back onto his gun for him. Like she couldn¡¯t help mothering him, now that he was hurt. ¡°You can run. I know it hurts, but you¡¯re not going to die. But if we don¡¯t leave now, we just might.¡± Clint nodded and followed her. Every breath and step sent pain whistling through every part of him. But it didn¡¯t take long for the opiates to numb it. His blood stuck tacky to his skin, but it was a slow steady ooze. He would not bleed out. Somehow, this post-death body would fix itself up again. There was nothing else to do but run. And hope no one else would beat them to it.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
They spent hours walking around the full length of the map. The sun relented for part of it as the clouds came out and filled the air with rain. The cool water was a stinging relief against his broken skin. Pain was real here. Palpable. He could feel it in every breath and every gasping tug of his backpack. He carried his Kalashnikov unslung, because the weight of it pulled at the hole in his chest and reopened it bit by bit. ¡°How long does it take for it to go away?¡± Clint muttered when they stopped once for water. They were all the way on the western edge of the circle, almost halfway opposite the map from Florence¡¯s gang. Their efforts had brought the number of players down to eighty-one, and while they were walking Florence¡¯s crew dropped it another few to seventy-eight. ¡°For what?¡± Malina asked. She dipped her head up and he realized she was walking staring down at the map. Her eyes looked busy. She looked at the wound on Clint¡¯s chest. ¡°We should wrap that up. It will go a bit faster. Should be done in another few hours or so.¡± They paused under the shade of an oak tree, where the rain wasn¡¯t falling quite as thick. They set down their packs, and Clint sat on top of his with a heavy sigh. He pulled off his shirt. The upper part of the plate was dented and twisted, and a half circle of the bullet¡¯s trail tore through the shoulder strap. ¡°Could have been worse.¡± Malina peeled off his bulletproof vest, ignoring his yelp of pain. She only squeezed his forearm and reminded him, ¡°Stay quiet. Where¡¯s that rubbing alcohol you found?¡± Clint sat still, biting his fist, while Malina doused the little hole below his collarbone in clear liquid. It stank and stung, and he seethed through his teeth, but within moments the burning lowered to a constant dull ache. Malina slapped a wad of bandages over the spot. Clint held it in place while she looped medical tape over his shoulder and under his armpit, a few tight revolutions that held his bandage fast. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we take the bullet out?¡± he ventured. ¡°Just like in real life, you¡¯ll cause way more damage doing that than if you just left it in. More abrasions, more bleeding, more infection.¡± Malina tore the tape with her teeth and knotted the end of it. ¡°I tried it once.¡± She pulled up her shirt to show him her soft belly, the spidering scar near her hip. It was dark fresh scar tissue. ¡°Jesus Christ. What happened?¡± ¡°Nearly died my first day here. Now, I¡¯m more careful.¡± She tossed him his shirt and stood with a stretching sigh. ¡°We have to keep moving,¡± she reminded him. ¡°Our little diversion will only work for so long.¡± Clint nodded and rose to his feet. Winced and gasped as he eased back into his shirt. The bulletproof vest that may have saved his life. The bandage helped the backpack burn a little less when it pulled at his clavicle. They kept walking. As they eased into the northwest curve of the circle, they found the suburbs giving way to a dense grove of trees. The trees were full of birdsong and chittering squirrels. Clint nearly walked with his head up, watching the branches. Nearly forgot where he was. But when they entered the grove Malina raised her gun and whispered to him, ¡°This is an easy place to get caught out. Lots of little hiding places.¡± Clint nodded. He raised his rifle and cushioned it against his left shoulder. His right arm was stronger, but he couldn¡¯t imagine the backwards pounding of his rifle against the bullethole in his shoulder. Great fucking stars of pain. They split apart and walked low through the trees. Malina was only thirty feet or so west of him, picking her way near-soundlessly through the brush. To his right, through the trees, Clint could see the field she had talked about. The sage grass was at least up to his hips, deep enough to hide him crawling through, backpack and all. Beyond the field, he could see two distinct buildings opposite them. One was larger than the other, its parking lot a fleet of muddy vehicles: trucks and humvees and jeeps, a small pack of motorcycles. And near spitting distance away from it, separated only by a grove of trees, sat a low square building. The library.
As usual, Malina devised their plan. And Clint did not try to debate her, despite all his qualms, because he knew he could not think of anything better. Now three-quarters of his map was filled in. He sat at the very top of his map, the northern edge where the trees grew sparse and thin. A quarter mile of grass sat between them and the school, a huge sprawling building with dead-eyed and shattered windows. No sounds came from there: no shouts, no laughter, nothing. Quiet as a grave. ¡°Do you think they all left?¡± Clint whispered to her. ¡°Doubt it. But I would believe most of them left.¡± Malina reached into her pack and produced a scope for a gun she did not own. But she squinted through it at the windows, turning the lens gently to see more. ¡°They know they¡¯re under attack. They don¡¯t know who¡¯s doing it. They have no choice but to go hunting for us in each and every house.¡± She smirked sideways at Clint. ¡°Which is precisely what we want. Distraction.¡± Clint nodded and swallowed the cold husk of his fear. He asked, ¡°Are you ready?¡± ¡°If anyone is there,¡± she warned him, ¡°they¡¯re going to see us. There¡¯s no point crawling. We just need to run, hide behind the nearest car, and pray to fucking hell that we don¡¯t get shot. Okay?¡± That expression made Clint laugh. It was appropriate, of course; praying to God wouldn¡¯t do much good in a place like this. He said, ¡°I¡¯m glad I met you.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be sappy. We¡¯re not dying.¡± But she gripped his forearm tightly, like it was the closest she could bring herself to hugging him. ¡°Okay. Keep your head down. Try to make yourself as small as possible. Make yourself harder to hit.¡± Clint stared across the brief stretch of open field left. The sky was nearly black with storm clouds, and Malina¡¯s words were punctuated by the faraway hum of thunder. They set off sprint across the field. Clint lowered himself down, and crouching like this with their guns raised and sweeping the field in front of them, he and Malina ran at the same speed. They bolted across the field like mice trying to make it to their burrow before the fox comes. Clint expected gunfire. He expected a warning shout. But they dove behind the car, and the only thing he heard was another low rumbling from the sky. ¡°Do you think,¡± he gasped, ¡°anyone¡¯s there yet?¡± Malina just shook her head at him and pressed her finger to her lips. She leaned over the hood of the jeep and peered her shotgun around. Looked at the dark-eyed windows of the school with her detached scope once more. ¡°We have to hope we don¡¯t have to head back the way we came,¡± she muttered. ¡°We might have timed it while they were out, but if they come back while we¡¯re still in there¡­¡± ¡°We may be fucked,¡± Clint agreed. ¡°Right.¡± He glanced toward the library. His heart huge and happy in his chest. Light as a bird. He couldn¡¯t help his laugh. ¡°I¡¯ll race you there.¡± Malina barked a laugh. ¡°I don¡¯t want to embarrass you.¡± The rain sliced through the air. It rattled against the windshields and roofs of all the cars. At the very least, if they had to shoot someone, it would be hard to hear over the rain and the dull cry of the clouds. They set off together across that last stretch of field. Clint did not feel safe until they were pressed against the trees bordering the library parking lot. ¡°Holy shit,¡± Malina whispered, gasping. She reached out and clutched Clint¡¯s hand for a moment. ¡°You¡¯d better be right about this place.¡± Then she jogged over to the closest window and banged out the remaining window panes with the butt of her gun. She pulled her sleeve over her hand to dust the rest of the glass out. Malina grinned over her shoulder at him. Then she vaulted herself through the open window and disappeared inside the library. Clint hurried to follow her.