Eric stepped into the terminal, allowing him privacy.
“Like that website you sent me to, I can give you only a minute,” Balenger said bitterly into the phone.
“You managed the impossible — to stay in one place and yet keep moving at the same time,” the voice said.
“The rigged BlackBerry you arranged for me to have is in a trash can. The location marker you put in my arm is in the pocket of a homeless man, walking down Broadway.”
“But how can you be my avatar if I can’t track your progress? I want to know where you are.”
“And I want to know this. Why Amanda? Why us?”
“The Paragon Hotel.”
“We didn’t suffer enough? You decided to put us through more?”
“I needed players worthy of the game, people who proved they know how to survive. You and Amanda have amazing strength and resources. The prototype of Scavenger can’t succeed without you.”
“Prototype? For God’s sake, don’t tell me you think you can license this thing?”
“In 1976, there was an arcade game called Death Race. Players drove to a haunted cemetery. Stick figures appeared on the road. They were supposed to be ghosts, and the object of the game was to win points by hitting them, causing a cross to appear on the screen. A woman caught her son playing it and was so horrified that she started a campaign against violence in video games. 60 Minutes and other major news programs added to the outcry. Local governments passed laws about where video arcades could be located, all because of some stick figures that turned into crosses. And what was the result? Video games became more popular.
“By 1993, a game called Mortal Kombat was so bloody it allowed the winner to reach into the defeated character’s throat and yank out its skeleton. Congress investigated the video game industry, insisted on a rating for all games, and tried to impose censorship. Not that it mattered. The uncensored Mortal Kombat sold three times the copies that the censored version did. Today’s action games are even more graphic. Players can steal cars, hit pedestrians, shoot policemen, and beat up prostitutes. The U.S. Army commissioned two vivid combat games, one for recruiting and the other for training.”
“Your minute is up,” Balenger said.
“Ever see the movie Network? In 1976, audiences thought it was a satire with an exaggerated storyline. Peter Finch plays a network news anchor named Howard Beale. His ratings are in the basement. In despair, he threatens to commit suicide during his broadcast, and suddenly everybody wants to watch him. He switches from presenting the news to ranting and raving. His ratings go higher. Meanwhile, the network’s entertainment division takes over the news department, and the news gets manipulated to make it more dramatic. Television becomes dominated by loudmouths shouting at each other on talk shows.”
“All right, I get the point. You just described most of the news programs on cable television.”
“Do I think I can license Scavenger? Not today or tomorrow. Not next year or the year after that. But I guarantee one day I will. Because the line between reality and alternate reality becomes ever more blurred, and things always get more extreme.”
In the background, a jet roared, taking off.
“What’s that noise?” the voice asked.
“Me coming to get you.”
Balenger broke the connection.
6
The surge of the Learjet off the runway made Balenger think he was in a sports car. The noise from the twin jets was muffled. He peered from a window on his right, seeing the lights of New Jersey’s Meadowlands. In the middle distance, lights reflected off the Hudson River. Beyond was the brilliance of the Manhattan skyline. Under other circumstances, the sight would have thrilled him, but now it only emphasized how far away Amanda was. When the jet headed west, he plugged his BlackBerry’s charger cord into a specially designed receptacle and leaned back in his seat. He felt small and alone.
Not hungry, he forced himself to bite into a turkey sandwich that he’d brought from the terminal. Eat whenever you can, he reminded himself.
And try to rest. The cabin lights were dim. He felt as if he’d been on the run forever. Allowing himself to admit exhaustion, he removed his shoes and tilted his seat back. He glanced at his watch: 9:14. He’d been told that the flight to Lander was a little under five hours. That would get him to Lander around 2:14 New York time, 12:14 Wyoming time.
Time, he kept thinking, reminded of the text on the back of the game case. Time is the true scavenger. If the game started at ten a.m., as the Game Master suggested… His name is Jonathan Creed! Balenger thought. Use his damned name. But Balenger couldn’t resist calling him the Game Master… then more than eleven hours had elapsed. Twenty-nine to go. Endgame would be at two a.m., the day after tomorrow.
No, Balenger told himself. The fearful symmetry of the true deadline abruptly occurred to him. He was thinking in New York time. But in Wyoming, with the two-hour time-zone difference, the endgame would be tomorrow at midnight.
He closed his eyes, knowing he needed to sleep. But he couldn’t clear his mind of the shocking image he’d seen on the BlackBerry screen — the woman in the gray jumpsuit, the explosion, red mist, flying body parts, Amanda’s look of horror.
I’ll be there soon, he thought, straining to project his thoughts to her. Don’t give up. Keep fighting. I’ll get there. I’ll help you.
Chilled, he folded his arms across his chest. Unable to do anything now except wait, he couldn’t stop trembling.
LEVEL SEVEN
FIRST-PERSON SHOOTER
1
The wind died. Amanda no longer felt it trying to yank the door away. In the night, the rain continued, but it now fell straight down, drumming on the boards above them. She allowed herself to relax, only to become tense again when Viv murmured, “A Master’s degree in English? From Columbia? I hear that’s an awfully fancy school.”
Was Viv trying to grasp at small talk and distract herself from what happened to Derrick? Amanda wondered. Or was the remark confrontational? She remembered the angry look Viv had directed toward her when the Game Master mentioned her education.
“I wanted to go to college, but I couldn’t pay the tuition,” Viv said.
Amanda worried that another fight was about to start. Was that how Viv would handle her grief, by lashing out at whoever was close?
“Hell, I don’t know why I got angry at you.” Viv’s unexpected comment made Amanda less uneasy. “I’d probably have flunked. What I really wanted was to climb mountains with Derrick.”
A raindrop fell through the roof.
“Cold,” Viv said. She wearily opened a water bottle. “We used a lot of energy. Make sure you drink.”
Amanda raised the single bottle she had, savoring each swallow. “That’s the end of it.”
“Leave the cap off, and set it outside. Some of the rain’ll collect in it. Meanwhile, we’ll share my other bottle. If we’re going to get out of this, we need to help each other.”
The thought was encouraging until Amanda thought of Ray. Then she thought of something else, although she hesitated to raise the subject. “There’s another source of water.”
“Where?”
“It’s difficult to talk about.”
“Tell me.”
“Derrick has two water bottles.”