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There’s a scream next to me. I turn and see a man on the ground at my feet writhing from a gunshot wound to the stomach. He turns over and I see a name on the back of his shirt: P. MERCURIO.

The earth jumps a foot from my feet. It’s a gunshot impact. I see flashes coming from the main road.

I run.

I note a statistics box on the lower right, and I see there are fourteen active players currently in this scenario. Suddenly P. Mercurio’s name pops up in red in the box then fades out. Now there are thirteen active players.

I’m starting to get the hang of this.

I move through the digitized world of Camp Liberty. There are a lot more than thirteen players on the board. When theses avatars turn their backs, they’re identified numerically, for example as COMPUTER 1249, which means the computer is generating additional characters to populate the world. These characters stream out of the buildings, confused and upset. Some of them are caught in the open and mowed down, others carry weapons and run in a zigzag pattern like they know what they’re doing. Almost everyone is moving toward the main building in the center of the encampment.

The earth rumbles beneath me, the sound of large armored vehicles moving down the main road toward the encampment.

“Daniel, this way!” a character shouts.

He runs in front of me, motioning for me to follow him. The back of his shirt says L. MOORE.

It’s Lee.

I follow him toward the house at the center of the encampment. If the game world is as realistic as I suspect, I can use it to learn the layout of the main house.

I lose Lee in the throng of running people. Some of them are panicked and screaming, others calm. There are different entry points to the main house, and they seem to know which to head for. The ones who make it are let into the house.

A character runs into the front door of the house. I make for the same door and turn the knob—

It’s locked.

“Access denied,” the game says and sends a painful warning vibration through my controller.

Gunshots pepper the wood around my head. I duck low and run for a side door.

“Access denied,” the game intones again.

I turn and I see a figure watching me from across the way. There’s something different about him, something unlike the other characters on the board. At first it seems like he might be dead because he’s not moving while people pass by him.

But I note a subtle swivel of his head. He’s standing still, but he appears to be monitoring me.

Who inside the game might be watching me? It’s not Lee. I saw him disappear into the main house.

I move toward the unknown figure, trying to angle around to see the name on the back of his shirt. I slide along a wall, edging ever closer to him.

Suddenly a bullet impact throws wood splinters past my character’s eyes.

I’m temporarily blinded. When my vision returns, the unknown figure is gone.

I hear shouts behind me. Men in blue jackets are racing into the encampment, the letters ATF emblazoned in gold across their front. They carry assault weapons.

ATF. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.

I’m beginning to understand why the camp is set up like it is. They think they’re going to be raided by the government. Not just raided but attacked. And they’re preparing to defend themselves against it.

I watch the ATF agents streaming into camp inside the game. My first feeling is that I should trust them. They work for the government, and though they’d never know it in real life, so do I.

In the game, I step out where the ATF agents can see me, and I raise my hands in surrender.

They lift their assault rifles and commence firing on my position.

This should never happen in real life, law enforcement firing on unarmed civilians. But in the ethos of the Camp Liberty game, it’s us versus them. This ATF has shoot-to-kill orders.

I turn and run.

I make for a small house set apart from the main structure. I fling my avatar’s body against the door.

“Access denied,” it says.

I feel my pulse quicken as the ATF agents advance on the encampment.

This is just a game, I remind myself.

But it’s amazingly realistic in its depiction. The screaming voices, the rumble of trucks, the hiss of tear gas cartridges falling and releasing their contents around me.

I even hear my character coughing. His movement slows. I press harder on my controller, but I cannot make him run faster.

I cannot get away from these agents with guns.

One last chance, a glass window in a small building off to the side. I run toward it and throw my character into the air, hoping to hear the window shatter.

Instead there is a loud buzzer.

“Access denied,” the game says again.

That’s when the bullets hit me.

A vibration passes through the controller along with a mild shock that causes the muscles in my hand to contract.

I look down at my character’s stomach, blood seeping through his shirt.

I press the controller, but it’s like trying to move through wet concrete.

I glance up to see an unknown figure standing passively to the side, watching me. It’s the one from before, the one who was monitoring me.

My screen begins to dim.

The character turns and begins to walk away. I look at the back of his shirt through the encroaching haze. Every character has a name or a computer code imprinted on the back of their shirt.

Every character except his.

There is no name. His shirt is blank.

My screen goes black. There is the sound of wind, a low howl like a storm blowing through an empty field. A single word appears on the screen:

Terminated

A data block floats in and centers itself on the screen. These are the stats for my character, Daniel X.

Active player ranking: 14 out of 14

Chance of survival in an equivalent real-world scenario: 0%

Chance of survival in all scenarios: 32%

Universal ranking: 128 out of 128 statistical players.

I’m not only dead. I’m dead last.

No matter.

Because in playing the game, I’ve seen a map of the encampment. I can find my way around.

Enough play. It’s time to get my mission on track.

I have to call Father and let him know where I am.

I take my iPhone from the desk. I glance at it and see no service.

I think about how a group could accomplish electronic blocking in an environment like this. I imagine a central device radiating from the center of the encampment, with additional devices, electronic repeaters, up in the mountains.

Up high. That’s where I’ll have to go to get a signal.

It’s late now, well past midnight. It’s time to use what I have learned from the game.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CALCULATED RISK.

That is what I am trained to assess. All actions carry risk. Stepping out of the house in the morning exposes you to risk. Likewise walking on the street, getting into a car, flying. All of them are risky, but a normal person doesn’t see it that way. Because once the level of risk falls below a certain threshold, a normal person no longer sees the activity as inherently dangerous.

Not me. I know the truth.

All actions carry risk, but the risk must be assessed.

Leaving my room in the dark and walking through an armed encampment. Attempting to escape into the mountain, high enough that I can get a signal and call The Program.

Extreme risk.

Staying in my room without contacting The Program, knowing that I am undertaking a mission that was not planned and for which I can receive no support.