Assault or Attrition (20 page)

Hours passed
and nothing happened. A bird would occasionally pass overhead, or a
shooting star would streak through the sky (all part of the
artificial light show built into the ceiling) but there were no
signs of our teammates, or anyone from the Red Army.

Twelve hours
had rolled by, according to my com, and I realized that the ‘sun’
wasn’t going to rise. We were trapped in a level that was locked in
perpetual night. With reduced visibility we were more vulnerable,
and the chances of locating our friends were far slimmer.

I was about to
embark on a recon mission to scout the surrounding area when I
heard rustling in the trees. Mac stumbled from the forest behind
us, exhausted and dehydrated. I rushed to his side and he crumbled,
falling to a knee. For an out-of-shape man in his mid-forties, my
pilot could party like a teenager, but hiking for half a day over
rough terrain will take its toll on
anyone
– especially
without water.

Dragging his
feet with each step, Mac made his way to the shoreline and knelt in
shallow water, scooping handfuls into his mouth. Once he’d
rehydrated he joined us in our makeshift campsite under some
low-hanging branches. He hadn’t heard from anyone, although he had
stumble across a container of his own. When he flipped the lid he
discovered a handheld cylinder with yellow markings that resembled
a grenade. I inspected the small print that marked the sides. It
was a flash bang; a high-powered distraction more than a weapon, it
was used to create a bright flash of light to blind and disorient
enemies in combat.

I wanted to
begin a search for Brynja and the staff, but we’d all been awake
for so long – we were exhausted and needed rest. After a few hours
of sleeping in shifts, alternating who kept watch over the lake and
shoreline, we heard the first signs of life. It was screaming; a
guttural, high-pitched squeal that started faintly in the distance,
and rapidly grew louder.

Mac, Peyton and
I raced from beneath the tree line and stood at the edge of the
lake, watching it approach: a bright yellow object, soaring high
overhead.

It was coming
straight towards us.

And it looked
exactly like a GoBot.

Ortega,
flailing and screaming, had been catapulted across half the
level.

“Wait,” Mac
asked, squinting into the sky, “can those suits fly?”

Ortega slammed
into the rocky shoreline a hundred feet away, his body contorting
violently as it made impact. He twisted and bent, limbs folding
into unnatural positions when he finally rolled to a stop.

The color
drained from Mac’s face at the gruesome sight. “I guess not.”

Before the
shock of what we’d seen could penetrate, a new set of sounds
reverberated over the body of water. The sound of trees toppling
into each other was growing louder, and we could see the tops
disappearing from down the shoreline. Whatever had launched Ortega
miles to his death was now tearing a swath through the forest – and
it was barreling towards us.

I detached
the rifle from the magnetic strip
on my armor’s spine and
leveled it, pulling the stock firmly into my shoulder. Mac followed
my lead, taking aim at the edge of the woods.

Without warning
the crashing ceased, and in the deafening gulf of silence that
followed I felt my heart pounding inside of my chest. For a moment
I thought would crack my ribcage if it beat any faster. I was
suddenly hyper-aware of every detail that surrounded me: a
mosquito’s circling around my right ear; drops of perspiration
rolling from my hairline down the back of my neck; and my index
finger, poised over the trigger, vibrating with nervous
tension.

“Matthew
Moxon!” a voice called out. “It’s really you!” A young man emerged
from the darkened forest and stepped into the clearing, beaming
with excitement. A pale kid with a head of rumpled blond hair and a
crooked smile, he couldn’t have been a day over twenty.

I lowered my
weapon.

“A friend of
yours?” Mac asked, re-attaching the gun to his holster.

Unless this was
my short term memory loss playing tricks on me, I didn’t think so.
Although the kid
was
wearing ripped jeans, sneakers and a
time-worn Batman t-shirt – which basically matched the description
of every second person who walked through the doors of Excelsior
Retro Comics back in The Fringe. For all I knew we’d been
introduced at some point while I wasn’t paying attention. I was
more curious about how this kid had arrived in The Spiral, without
a weapon or any back-up. He seemed significantly less homicidal
than the rest of the Red Army, and aesthetically he didn’t quite
fit their profile.

“You don’t know
me,” he said, approaching with an extended hand, “but I love your
work.” I shook it and nodded politely as he continued. “When I saw
you in Arena Mode I
knew
I wanted to do the same thing:
shoot people, blow shit up...” The kid looked me up and down,
before adding, “It’s amazing that you won since you have
no
powers whatsoever. And your size...well, you looked a lot taller on
iTube.” He had so much energy it was almost radiating from his
skin; his wild hand gestures and hyperkinetic speech had an
exhausting effect after just a few moments.

“Thanks,” I
replied curiously. “And you are?”

He laughed,
playfully smacking himself in the side of the head. “Right, my
name. It’s—”

“Steve
McGarrity!” Chandler shouted. He was hobbling towards us, eyes wide
with excitement.

“You know this
guy?” I asked.

“Do I
know
him?” Chandler exclaimed. “Everyone knows him. He’s the
guy with the video game, the...he’s
the
champion. The
one
! With the trophies – from the IG-Net!”

“Interactive
Gaming Network champ from 2033 to 2035,” McGarrity stated with
pride. “Highest cash earner in the First-Person-Shooter and
Holo-Strategy divisions...no big deal.” He extended his hand and
Chandler rapidly shook it, nearly swooning in the process.

“What an
honor,” Chandler added breathlessly. “This is...
wow.
We are
so
happy to have you here. I never dreamed that Murder Lion
14 would come to visit me. Well, not
me
, specifically,
but...either way. You’re here.”

“Your name is
Murder Lion 14?” Peyton asked, creasing her face into a perplexed
frown.

“It was my
gamer ID,” McGarrity explained. “Back when I played professionally.
I added the 14 because ‘Murder Lion’ was already taken.” His tone
leveled off, and his expression grew more serious. “But lately I’ve
been workshopping some new names...I’m thinking something
really
bad-ass that plays off of my Scottish heritage – like
‘Braveheart’.”

“I have a
feeling that name might be copyrighted,” Peyton noted. She kept a
safe distance, remaining a few paces behind Mac and Chandler.

“I never said
it
would
be Braveheart,” he replied without missing a beat.
“I said
something
like that.”

Mac cocked his
head. “So you’d paint your face blue and wear a kilt?”

“I never said
there’d be a kilt, either,” McGarrity chuckled. “Can you imagine?
Fighting crime in a dress?” He gestured towards Peyton before
adding, “No offense, darling.”

“Steve, is it?”
I lowered my voice and chose my next words very carefully, speaking
as politely and diplomatically as possible. “Before we get off on
the wrong foot, maybe you can tell us what the fuck you’re doing
here?”

He smiled
wryly, as if I was asking a ridiculous question that I should
already know the answer to. “I’m here to be on the simulcast. Get
to the bottom of The Spiral...you know, claim the prize? The Hall
of Victors?” He raised his eyebrows, before adding, “Remember: ‘the
ultimate power, the ultimate freedom’?”

Mac, Petyon and
I exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond. How could he
possibly know what Cameron Frost’s hologram said to us before we
descended into The Spiral?

“The
simulcast
,” he repeated slowly, enunciating every syllable.
“Live. As in, what’s going on.
Right
now.” He spread his
hands and gestured around him, looking in every direction, although
I wasn’t sure what he was gesturing
at.

Peyton crinkled
her nose. “I’m not following. How are we on a simulcast,
exactly?”

McGarrity
explained that our journey into The Spiral – everything starting
with Cameron Frost’s pre-recorded speech before the event, right up
until this very moment – was being captured on hidden cameras, and
broadcast around the world just as Arena Mode had been. We just
weren’t aware of it.

It got
creepier. When we dropped into The Spiral, it triggered something
inside of Fortress 23 that automatically distributed our security
footage to all the major news networks, so many of our
conversations leading up the event were being replayed as well.

Our new friend
recently discovered that he possessed superhuman abilities, and was
awaiting his opportunity to join the next big event – so when the
second Arena Mode began broadcasting just under twenty-four hours
ago, he hopped the first flight from Austin to Alberta and entered
the same way as we had, through the pneumatic tubes where we’d
registered.

“What about the
Red Army?” Mac asked. “Weren’t you worried they’d shoot you or
something?”

“Nah,” he said
casually. “They’re only concerned with capturing Mox here. No one
gave me a second look. But when I gave Valeriya a little demo of my
powers, she let me into one of the tubes. There’s only five left,
so she’s not letting the Muggles down here.”

Our group had
taken eight of the thirteen available pods (including Judy’s, which
never made it down) leaving five spares. Apparently they haven’t
figured out a way to breach the lower levels of The Spiral without
using the pneumatic tubes, or surely the Red Army would be swarming
the forest by now. Valeriya was wisely conserving the pods, and was
sending only the most dangerous hunters into the lower levels.
Whatever Steve McGarrity had showcased as a sample of his
abilities, it must have impressed her enough to grant him one of
the five remaining spots.

Despite
pledging his allegiance to the Army, Steve claimed he was just
looking for a way to get into The Spiral; he had no interest in
taking on any temp work as a bounty hunter. He was skeptical of
being able to collect the twenty million dollar prize that Valeriya
had promised to award for my capture anyway. Steve’s goal was the
‘ultimate freedom’ that Cameron Frost promised to whomever was able
to reach the final stage of The Spiral, whatever that was. I
assured him that money was no object; I’d double Valeriya’s offer,
and let him claim this nebulous prize that he was so interested in
(if it were even there – the Spiral was still under construction,
so I was doubtful we’d find anything on the lower level besides a
long, dusty construction tunnel).

“Wait,” Peyton
said, “before we get too chummy with William Wallace over here,
shouldn’t we address the fact that he
murdered
Ortega?” She
pointed towards our chef, whose twisted body lay in a heap by the
shoreline.

Steve spun
around and narrowed his eyes at the angular yellow armor. “What is
that, a Transformer or something?”

Mac nodded. “I
thought he looked more like a GoBot, actually.”

Steve turned
back and furrowed his brow. “A what?”

“It’s a
person,
” Peyton interrupted. “A flesh-and-blood person who
you
killed.”

Steve shrugged
and buried his hands in his pockets. “That wasn’t me. It was The
Beast.”

“The what?” I
blurted out.

“I don’t know
his name,” Steve explained. “Up top everyone just calls him The
Beast. Big, nasty son-of-a-bitch. He can flip back and forth
between a human and this big rock thing. Valeriya sent him down
here to find you guys, along with me and a few others. I assume you
haven’t seen him yet because...well, you’re all alive and
stuff.”

As we continued
to discuss The Beast I spotted a projectile sailing overhead. A
tree, torn from its roots, spiralled past us at incredible speed,
crashing into the forest at our backs. Moments later a figure burst
from the darkness. It was a man – or what was vaguely shaped like a
man – only much, much larger. I’d seen impossibly large superhumans
before; towering walls of muscle, powerful enough to smash
buildings to dust with their bare hands – but nothing like this.
This behemoth was built from ash-colored boulders, stacked at least
twenty feet high. Menacing blue eyes flared angrily from slits in
its featureless head, and they focused intently on us as it
approached.

I pulled the
machine gun from my back and opened fire. Petyon and Mac
immediately followed. We emptied dozens of rounds into this thing –
armor piercing, explosive and incendiary slugs – enough firepower
to send a tank into orbit. The Beast didn’t flinch. It continued to
lumber down the shoreline, shaking the ground with each step.

As we scrambled
to reload, Steve clapped his hands together, rapidly rubbing them
in circles. His fingertips sparked and illuminated, then quickly
fizzled out like a dying flare. “Shit,” he grumbled. “Not enough
light.”

“What?” Peyton
screamed over the deafening sound of machine gun fire.

“I can bend
light,” he shouted back, “but it’s too dark in here. I need
something bright.”

Mac pulled the
flash-bang from my belt and held it out for his inspection.

Steve must have
recognized what he was holding, because a wide smile spread across
his narrow face. “Throw it at me.”

Without
hesitation Mac stepped backward, pulled the pin and lobbed it,
striking him squarely in the chest. The burst was blinding. We
shielded our eyes when it made impact, but the reflected light sent
harsh yellow streaks across my field of vision.