“That was dangerous,” Sarah said dryly. He looked over to see her and Bryson exactly where he’d left them.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Michael realized something then. “Hey, where’d that lady go?”
Bryson pointed over at the ticket stand. “She ran over there and disappeared under the counter.”
Michael knew immediately that something was wrong. He climbed over the concession stand and joined his friends, handing one of the shotguns to Bryson. “Let’s get out of here.”
That was when Stonewall popped up from behind the counter, huge arms folded across her chest, just like the first time they’d seen her. “You picked the wrong day to mess with me. Did you really think I’d let you waltz in here and play a game you’re restricted from? Huh? Did you?”
A hissing sound suddenly came from all directions at once. Michael spun in a circle to find its source, and it took him a moment to realize that several holes had appeared along the walls and in the ceiling. Before he could warn his friends, thick lengths of black rope were shooting out, slithering through the air like flying snakes.
He turned to move, but the ropes were everywhere. A piece wound around his ankle, squeezing tightly, as if it was alive.
As he bent over to yank it off, the rope jerked him off his feet and flung him into the air.
9
Michael’s stomach lurched as his body twisted, the rope whipping him back and forth like a dog does its prey. And just like a dog’s prey, he was disoriented. But somehow he’d held on to the gun. As he flew around the room, he focused all his energy into trying to get it cocked. Lights flashed and the colors of the lobby spun until they merged into one. His head began to ache, as if another episode was coming on.
Michael gripped the shotgun with both hands, strained to double over, and aimed, making sure his foot wasn’t in the way. Then he fired.
The gun recoiled and flipped him backward. The floor came into view and kept coming, rushing up until he slammed into it face-first. Through the pain, he could feel the rope around his leg break free—he’d hit his target.
Its partners closed in, coiling and twisting in the air. There were dozens of them, and Michael scanned the room to see what had happened to his friends. Bryson was pinned to a wall, one black cable around his thigh and another one clasping his arm as he struggled to break free. Sarah had avoided outright capture, but she had the loose end of one of the cords in her hands and was trying to keep it from her face, as if it was a cobra straining to strike.
A rope found Michael, snaked up his leg, and began to twist around his knee. He grabbed it and yanked, jumping over it as he did. Then he batted another one coming for his head. Sarah lost her battle—the black cord had wrapped around her neck and was now dragging her to the wall where Bryson stood, his eyes closed and no longer struggling. Terrified that Bryson had been hurt, Michael started in that direction but was cut short by ropes attacking from both sides. He dove to the ground and rolled, kicking out to fling the cables away.
A draining, hopeless feeling tried to suck the life from him. How in the world could they get out of this? He only had one more shell in his shotgun; Bryson’s had slid clear across the room and landed at the foot of the ticket counter, behind which Stonewall stood like a statue, silently watching. Something about her made Michael do a double take—she was like stone, unnaturally still. Her eyes were glazed over and focused on some point in the distance. He’d never seen anything like it.
A cord tightened around Michael’s waist, pulling him back to the fight. Too late he tried to grab it and wrench it from his body; it had a solid hold. The cable jerked him across the floor, and he struggled to free himself as he slid toward his friends, both of whom were now cinched up against the wall with several more ropes than before. The gun started to slip out of Michael’s grasp, but he held on, knowing that last shell was his only chance.
Another rope began to wrap around his left ankle; he kicked it away. One came in from the right, straight at the gun, but he knocked it down with the gun’s barrel, almost pulling the trigger on reflex. Both hands free for a moment, he gripped the weapon tightly and aimed it two feet down the length of cable that had him by the waist. The blast sent him slamming into the floor again, dazing him for an instant. But he was able to tear loose from the now-limp coil. He rolled, dropping the gun, as it was now useless, and scrambled to his feet, slapping ropes away. That was when it hit him: he suddenly knew what the old lady was doing. Why she was so still and focused.
She was controlling the ropes.
10
He’d only have one chance at this.
Stonewall was thirty feet away, behind the ticket counter. In front of it, Bryson’s gun lay there for the taking. Between it and Michael, cords of black rope flew through the air like living vines, forming a spiderweb of traps. He sprinted forward.
They all attacked him at once, swarming in from every direction. He flung his arms wildly, jumped, and twisted, exploding with adrenaline. A cord tripped him up, sent him crashing to his stomach. Two ropes immediately snaked around his torso and he spun, grabbing them and pulling them off. He kicked and flailed, swatted and punched. Somehow he got back onto his feet and moved forward again, now several feet closer to his target. The ropes came again.
He pushed ahead, acting on instinct. He must’ve looked ridiculous, like a cracked-up dancer. He clambered toward the gun, getting closer and closer. A rope found his arm and cinched tight before he could do anything. It flung him into the air as he gripped it with his other hand and ripped his arm loose from its hold. Luckily, it had been pulling him in the right direction, and he slammed into the floor and slid forward until his head smacked the bottom of the ticket counter. The gun was right in front of his face.
He grabbed it, held it tight with both hands. Before he could get up, the ropes flew in, going for his legs and waist and chest, wrapping tightly around him. As he was fighting off those attempting to wind around his arms, the other ropes lifted him into the air.
He shot up and Stonewall came into view, her features still frozen. Michael only had an instant—the black cords were converging on his arms, trying to take the gun away. He aimed for her chest. But everything stopped before he could pull the trigger.
The ropes let go of him. As Michael crashed to the ground, the sounds of their retreat filled the room, a ringing metallic hiss as they slid back into their cubbyholes. The breath knocked out of him, Michael rolled over to look at his friends. They were free, too. He glanced back at Stonewall, saw her body slumped forward on the counter.
“What …,” Michael started to say, but he came up empty.
“I hacked her,” Bryson said from behind, his voice trembling with exhaustion. “She’s a Tangent—I shut her down. I’ve never been able to do that before—I got lucky, found a weak spot. Barely.”
So that’s why his eyes were closed, Michael thought, so relieved he wanted to laugh.
“Let’s get going,” Sarah said.
And Michael knew exactly what she meant. Into the game.
CHAPTER 10
THREE DEVILS
1
It took a few moments, but Michael was finally able to get the air flowing normally into his lungs. Sucking in one deep breath at a time, he walked over to Bryson and Sarah. Without speaking, they knew what to do. All three of them turned and made for the hallway in the back of the lobby.
A familiar voice rang out from behind them, and Michael turned to see Ryker standing on the concession stand again.
“Y’all are as clueless as can be,” she called out. “You think you know what you’re lookin’ for, but you don’t.”
Her words felt ominous to Michael. He knew how the Sleep worked, and he wondered if they had some deeper meaning that spelled trouble. Was she talking about the Portal or something bigger? Like Kaine himself.
“Oh, go lick your mama’s wounds,” Bryson replied.
Before Ryker could answer, the three broke into a run. Michael hoped he never had to lay eyes on that girl again.
2
The hallway grew dark, then cold, and Michael began to shiver. Though there was no light source, they could see just enough to be able to keep moving forward, and the hall went on and on and on. Gradually, when they realized no one had followed them, they slowed to a walk, and as they pressed forward, the temperature dropped. Soon Michael could see his breath in front of him.
He guessed they’d gone well over a mile before anyone spoke.
“This is the weirdest entrance to a game I’ve ever seen,” Bryson said, breaking the silence.
“You don’t think it’s a trap, do you?” Michael asked. “Maybe they dropped us into another game since we didn’t have access.”
“That’s against the law,” Bryson responded.
“So is breaking into a game,” Michael said.
Bryson shrugged. “Yeah, well.”
“Look up there.” Sarah was pointing ahead. “The walls change. And it gets lighter.”
They started running again and soon came upon a place where the walls were covered in ice that seemed to glow from within. Suddenly Michael could see better, and everything was different.
“Holy crap,” Bryson said, looking down at himself.
Their clothes had changed from their daily wear into puffy white snowsuits littered with pockets, all kinds of gear strapped to the belts. Michael noticed straps over his shoulders and realized he and his friends wore stuffed backpacks as well. Its weight didn’t hit Michael until he’d fully examined his new uniform.
He tightened the pack’s straps a little and started examining his belt. He had five grenades, a canteen, a knife, and some rope. “Well, guess that answers that question,” he announced. “We’re in.”
“And it looks like we’re on the glacier front,” Sarah said. The gold vein—the thing everyone was fighting over—ran mostly below Jakobshavn Glacier, one of the bigger ones in Greenland. But the battlefronts ran all the way down to the tundra as well, a messy goop of swamp and mud.
“They better have real weapons waiting for us up there,” Bryson said, nodding down the tunnel. “I don’t know if I can stomach fighting with a knife today, game or no game.”
Michael pulled his blade out and looked at it—solid and gray and sharp. “Yeah, me neither.”
“That makes three of us,” Sarah said as they started walking again. “Maybe we can code something in from another game. I just hope we don’t end up in jail for any of this.”
Michael waved his hand, dismissing the suggestion. “We’re doing all this because of the VNS. They’re not going to throw us in jail for following orders.” Though even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he was right.
“Oh yeah?” she replied. “You positive about that? All that stuff about how top secret this is? They’ll look the other way when you come crawling to them for help someday, say they’ve never even heard of you.”
Michael knew his friends could see the anxiety on his face. “All the more reason to find Kaine.”
They grew silent and picked up their pace, jogging down the long, icy tunnel. The gear was heavy and started to wear on Michael—he could tell he was slowing. Then the tunnel began to slope upward, making it even harder.