The Aftermath (17 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

When I awaken, panting and covered in sweat despite the fact it’s freezing inside the shack, I shoot straight up. My forehead collides with something hard in the dark. Declan mutters a few curse words and shines the screen from his tablet in my face. Once my eyes adjust to the bright blue light, I notice that his nose is red.

“Sorry,” I mutter but he shrugs it off. Apparently, he’s gotten used to me hitting him in the face.

“It’s time to go,” he says.

I don’t realize I’m holding my ear until he helps me to my feet.

“Are you ready?”

Don’t kid yourself. You’ll die if you leave.

Pursing my lips together, I ignore Mia’s words and grab my bag. All the water bottles have fallen to the bottom, and they knock hard against my lower back. I grunt and look down at the toe of Declan’s boot so he doesn’t see how agitated I am.

“To go into a flesh-eater den? Always,” I say.

“Because if you’re not, I can leave you here. I don’t want you going in there and ruining my assignment. Not after we’ve come this far.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He’s as obsessed with his assignment as Olivia is with the game. Annoyed, I bite the inside of my jaw. I yank the door open and walk outside. “I’m twice as qualified to do this, so don’t start with me tonight.”

He laughs and comes outside in the cold with me. Even though he mutters it under his breath, I feel my face grow hot when he says, “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

We run across the path to the mansion. Now that I see it up close, it’s not so beautiful. Several of the windows are smashed and the house looks more gray than white, probably from years of decay. There’s blood splatter on the columns, but then why would I expect anything different? This is The Aftermath.

“It shouldn’t take too long,” Declan says as he digs through his bag. He pulls out an armful of devices and a utility belt. He organizes his gear and puts the belt on. It fits him snugly, and I think of April, with her stained weapons holster drooping around her pointy hips.

I drag my backpack and his to the side of the house. I take a knife, a flashlight and my Glock from mine; then I hide both bags behind a shrub.

“Here,” he says. He presses something cold and heavy into my hand. I squint down at it. His electroshock gun.

“I’m touched,” I say. I glance up at him “You’d give me your Special Edition Tech...”

“Tech Arms. And I’m not giving it to you— I’m just letting you borrow it. I won’t need it.” Before I can stop him, he comes up behind me, pressing his body close to mine. He lifts my arms together and positions my hands on either side of the gun. “Quick tutorial,” he whispers.

I can barely breathe, much less concentrate, but I manage to get the gist of his instructions. Release safety catch. Wait for the target light to blink. Pull trigger—it will hit my target regardless of whether or not he moves. Don’t touch the amp setting. Right now, it’s set to where it will knock someone out without killing them.

“And we don’t want any of these characters dead,” Declan warns. He draws away from me, turning slightly to adjust his tools one last time. I find myself gravitating closer to him, but I stop myself. I focus on the electroshock gun.

“I know,” I whisper.

“They’re still people.”

“I understand,” I snap. Nobody understands that as clearly as I do, especially not a game moderator.

I pick the lock on the front door. A gutted character sits on one side of it, his head flopping to his chest. I glare harder at the bolt so I don’t have to see the blood. I imagine there’s plenty more inside. The lock releases and I step forward to walk in, but Declan catches the hem of my T-shirt and yanks me back.

“Wha—”

“We don’t know if they set the entire house as a save point or just one room. I’d hate for you to get your arms and legs fried before we even make it inside.”

I feel a mixture of gratitude and irritation. Gratitude because he cares enough to stop me from getting electrocuted. Irritation because he’s wrong—the current won’t fry my arms and legs. I should know, since I’ve already experienced it twice.

He tosses a coin through the doorway. When nothing happens, he steps inside and motions his head for me to follow. Shining the light from his AcuTab and my small flashlight, we walk through the hallways, opening doors as we pass them. There’s a horrible smell emanating throughout the house, and I try my best not to take too many breaths.

We come to a staircase. It’s long and winding. I’m dizzy just staring up at it. Gripping the smooth black banister tightly, I climb up first. Every other step makes me feel as if I’ll fall over the side and come crashing down. Declan nudges me forward until we reach the top.

There’s a hallway with four doors on either side.

“You check the right,” I say to him, as I fling open the first door on the left.

I’m at the third door when he says to me, “Found it.”

Cocking the Glock, I join him. He glances at me, at the gun in my hand and the electroshock gun in my waistband, but doesn’t say anything. He must know it’s habit and not murderous intentions. At least, I hope he realizes that.

The save point is a ballroom with white walls and elaborate molding around the ceiling. In the center of the room is a large chandelier. I shine my light on it. With its broken, jagged crystals that are covered in a thick layer of dust, it reminds me of human bones suspended in midair.

After Declan disables the electric barrier protecting the characters, I stand beneath the lighting fixture, looking around the room at the flesh-eaters and their victims. My eyes locate Mia swiftly. She’s beneath an archway, her arm wrapped around a male flesh-eater’s waist, her head sagging against his shoulder.

Just seeing this makes my chest tighten. I push away all the horrible thoughts trying to make their way into my head. I don’t want to think about what the LanCorp employee playing her has made her do.

I turn away from them and walk over to Declan. He kneels over a flesh-eater lying down on a brocade settee. This must be Wesley. He touches the boy’s throat to check for a pulse, and when he does this, Wesley’s head lolls forward so that his face is visible under my light.

A hundred years could have passed, a thousand even, and I’d have recognized that face. A narrow nose, thick, dark eyebrows and a small brown birthmark under his right cheek. My ear tingles as I drop the flashlight and lift the Glock so that it’s pointed at the middle of the boy’s head. I press the barrel to his skin.

“He attacked me,” I say.

Three years ago. In a dark parking garage. And I was completely helpless.

But now I’m not.

* * *

“Claudia,” Declan says, inching closer to me. He rarely ever uses my first name. It stuns me, makes the waves churning in my head crash even harder. He holds his hands out and nods toward the Glock. “Give me the gun, okay?”

“He attacked me. Bit me.” I turn my face just slightly so he can see my ear. “He tried to kill me.”

Declan swallows and shakes his head. He’s so close now that the tips of his fingers hover right over my hand. “No, the LanCorp employee operating him attacked you. And your gamer let him. He had no control over what he was doing. Just like you.”

I touch my ear. Rub my fingers over the uneven skin at the top of it. It hasn’t hurt in nearly three years, but right now it burns as badly as it had in the minutes after Wesley lunged at me. “Decla—”

“I know. And I’m sorry for what happened. But he’s not the one who hurt you—he never was. Be angry at the person who collects a paycheck for making him into—” he swallows again and drops his eyes to the dark-haired boy on the couch, staring sideways with unseeing eyes “—this.”

This is my dilemma. It’s so difficult not to rage at the person in front of me, in the flesh, instead of someone I’ll likely never meet. And the voice of reason in this scenario? The person who works for the company that made me suffer so much in the first place—and another boy who’s hurt me, even if he doesn’t realize I remember it.

“Claudia?” Declan says, pulling me toward him and gently removing the weapon from my hand.

“You’re right,” I whisper into his chest. And, as much as I hate to admit it, he is.

He places the Glock back in my hand. “You hold on to this.” He steps away from me, but I still can’t move because I can’t take my eyes off Wesley. Declan turns back to me, lifts my chin. He gives me a tight smile that is so far from his usual smirk it makes my chest hurt. “This will be over soon.”

Stop reminding me.

“I know,” I say. I pick my flashlight up and shine it onto Wesley’s face. His pupil’s contract, but he doesn’t blink. “So...we’re carrying him out of here?”

It’s funny, all this time we spent talking about finding this person and not once have I asked Declan what would happen once we did. I cringe at the thought of having to help carry him along with my bag. I remember moving Ethan through the bar, banging his arms against doors and walls. Wesley is taller by a couple of inches, probably heavier, too.

Declan shakes his head, drops to his knees and pulls off his utility belt. He bends over it, rummaging around. Finally he pulls out a stainless-steel device that I’ve not seen him use before.

But it’s familiar anyway.

It looks exactly like the tool Dr. Coleman used on my head after it was injured a few weeks ago.

I take a few steps backward, thudding into a piano. It makes a horrible screeching noise, and we both startle. “Why do you have that thing?”

“To get him out of here.”

“You’re going to torture him?”

“Of course not, what the hell is wr—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

His eyebrows knit together as he slides the belt against the wall beside the couch. He comes toward me, but I stumble out of the way. “I thought you said you were okay.”

“That thing in your hand...”

“Is going to permanently disrupt his chip. It’s a Triple C—Cerebrum Chip configurator.”

I dig my fingernails into my palm to keep from grasping at my own head. The details of what happened with Dr. Coleman are still fuzzy, but what I do recall is the pain. Searing, vomit-inducing agony, starting the moment I found myself inside my body. And it certainly didn’t block Olivia from playing me.

“You brought me here to help you kill him,” I whisper.

Declan’s mouth drops open and he stares at me, long and hard. Every moment that passes by without words makes me angrier, until I’m shaking. I should run. I should shoot him in the head right now and run, because once he’s done with Wesley, he’ll break his promise. Turn on me, or give me to his moderator friends who will do God knows what to me.

He might even turn me over to Olivia.

“If I wanted him dead, I would’ve let you put a bullet in his head five minutes ago. I’m interrupting his chip, breaking the link to his player. That way Wesley the person, not the character, can walk out of this game with us. Carrying him forty miles isn’t my idea of a good time.”

Oh. Heat rushes through my body, and I turn my back to him so he can’t see my red face. Assuming the worst of Declan has caused me nothing but embarrassment. I ball a handful of my shirt in my free hand and contemplate apologizing. I wish he’d stop proving me wrong so I could stop saying sorry.

“It’s all right, you know,” he says. “To ask questions. To worry about other people. It just shows this game hasn’t completely screwed you up.”

I wish he’d stop accurately reading my emotions, too.

I wait until my face has cooled to face him again. He’s positioned his AcuTab on an end table so that its flashlight function beams right over Wesley’s head. Holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, Declan carefully measures from his forehead to his crown. “Cerebrum Chips are...difficult. I have to find the exact spot to disrupt the signal or this will go over just like a deletion.”

I stand at the opposite end of the settee, studying Declan’s precise movements. “This thing you’re using—it’s the same tool used to delete a character?”

“No, but it can be used for a quick deletion,” he says. Our eyes meet. “But those don’t happen often, and they’re messy.”

My throat constricts. I don’t have the stomach to ask what he means by a messy deletion. Not right now while we’re standing in the middle of a cannibal den.

“What else is it for?”

“Resetting a chip. Deactivate, delete, reset. Triple C—and before you ask, I know none of those things begin with a
C,
Virtue.”

But I’m not worried over the reasoning behind the device’s name. Was this what Dr. Coleman did to me? Reset my Cerebrum Chip? “Does it hurt?”

He raises his head and squints at me. “I’m not sure.”

I take an uncertain step forward; feel my hand on top of my own head although I didn’t even realize I lifted it. “Can you do this to me?”

“No,” he says, concentrating. When I tense up and open my mouth to speak, he wrinkles his nose in frustration and holds up a hand. “I’ll tell you why when I’m done.”

My heart feels as though it’s jumped into my throat. It stays there as he continues working. He presses the flat end of the Triple C to Wesley’s crown. There are beads of sweat on Declan’s top lip. His shoulders tense up as he pulls a button on the tool up with his thumb. He holds it as Wesley begins to twitch violently. Even when the other boy trembles off the couch, Declan doesn’t release the trigger. I can see his lips move, silently counting.

“Done,” he says when he reaches forty seconds. He scoots back on his hands and bottom and sits against the wall, next to the rest of his gear.

Wesley lies on the floor in a twisted heap. If not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, I’d think he was dead. “Is he going to live?”

“He’ll come to in a few minutes.”

I nod, then move next to Declan, supporting my back on a portion of the wall that is not bathed in blood. We’re quiet for a very long time before he starts talking. “Your chip is different. Your link is different.”

“What do you mean by different?”

“Exactly what I just said. I’ve known that since the moment we met,” he says. I close my eyes and picture him probing my head with the blue device at the fence. “The structure of your chip is different from other characters. Ten times more complex. My chip reader couldn’t even read it. The only thing it was able to tell me was that you were an active character.”