Читать книгу Countdown - Michelle Rowen - Страница 11

Chapter 4

“HOW MUCH FARTHER?” I took a quick look over my shoulder to see that Rogan was about twenty feet behind me. I ran fast. Currently, he didn’t. Since I couldn’t let him lag too far behind—thanks to the brain implants from hell—it was becoming a problem.

His already strained face creased into a deeper frown. He stopped walking and looked around the gray, deserted street.

“We should almost be there” was his final proclamation, but he sounded uncertain.

“We better be,” I muttered. “Which way?”

“Take a left at the next intersection.”

I took the left along the street up ahead. None of it looked familiar to me. The area was desolate; there was no one around—unless you counted the spherical silver digicam whizzing around that I already hated enough to fantasize about smashing into a million little pieces.

I’d taken a swipe at it a minute ago when it got too close. The thing was faster than it looked—and it looked pretty damn fast.

This whole situation was so bizarre I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that it was actually happening to me. But it was. If my heart wasn’t pounding so hard that it hurt and if I hadn’t already experienced enough stress and pain to fill up five lifetimes, I would have sworn that I was dreaming.

Rogan cursed.

I looked back at him with alarm. “What now?”

He scanned the dead-end alley we’d just walked into. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“Like what?” I didn’t try to hide the hard edge of panic in my voice. “And hurry up, because we’re almost out of time.”

As if in reply, the voice in my head announced, “There are two minutes remaining in this level of Countdown.”

Rogan brought a hand up to his wound and swayed on his feet. I ran to his side to support him before he keeled over.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“I heard it.”

“So?”

“I could have sworn this was the right turn. I know this neighborhood. At least, I used to know it. It’s been a while, though. Things change.” His dark brows drew together.

I was now bracing his full weight against me to keep him from toppling over. “Yeah, you’re a whole lot of help.”

“I guess we won’t be winning the grand prize, will we? Knocked out at level two. It’s embarrassing.” He said it so wryly that I knew he was joking.

Joking. At a time like this? He was even crazier than he looked.

He was also very pale, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his grimy face. My hand was pressed to his chest to hold him steady, and his heart beat erratically. I pulled at his shirt to take a quick peek at the wound underneath. It looked raw and open, as if it had been inflicted with a sharp object like a big butcher’s knife. Definitely not from a gun. I’d seen bullet wounds up close and personal before—the image seared into my brain forever, along with my father’s glazed, unseeing eyes.

Blood oozed steadily out of Rogan’s shoulder.

“You’re a mess,” I informed him.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You stink, too.”

“Again, well aware. Like I said, they didn’t give me a few hours at the spa before locking me up in that room so I could smell like a flower for you.”

My throat thickened with panic. “You really think this is where we should be? Are you sure?”

“I was. But there aren’t any doors. There’s nothing. And if we’d reached the finish line, you’d think there’d be some sort of sign.” His words finally betrayed a sharp edge of strain.

“I’m going to let go of you now,” I said.

“Thanks for the warning.”

He eased back against the concrete wall behind him, and I stepped away to stand in the middle of the alley. I turned around slowly, trying hard to ignore the ticking that was potentially counting down the last seconds of my life.

“I used to watch TV shows like this,” I said. “Not exactly like this one, of course, but they have the races and the puzzles to solve. Usually at this early level of a game, it’s still fairly easy. Or at least, not insanely impossible to figure out.” I glared at the camera hovering in the air four feet from my face.

“You don’t know the people who set this game up. It’s all about the losing, not the winning, for them.”

“I’m just saying that it can’t be the end. Not yet. What’s the fun in eliminating contestants in level two?”

I scanned the alley. Two brick walls. One concrete wall, gray and unyielding, behind Rogan’s hunched-over frame. I looked up. A sliver of slate-gray sky showed above the thirty-story buildings that surrounded us like cold, emotionless sentries.

“What did you think we were running toward?” I asked. “What did you see on that map?”

He looked around. “It was an office. I remember it from before I got sent away. I could have sworn it was right here.”

“One minute remains in this level of Countdown.”

“59...58...57...”

There was a Dumpster to the side of us, full to overflowing. Strange, considering that the neighborhood was deserted. A rotting apple core lay to the side of it, the fruit turning brown. No flies, though. It didn’t seem as if anyone or anything lived here anymore, but that piece of fruit didn’t seem as old as it should have, considering the surroundings.

“What kind of office was it?” I asked.

“What?”

“What kind of office?” I repeated, loud enough to be heard over the countdown.

“It was a...a doctor’s office. A psychiatrist.”

“Let me guess, your doctor?”

Rogan’s expression shadowed. “I had a few appointments there, yeah.”

“Obviously he wasn’t very good at what he did if you went psycho, anyway.”

He glowered at me.

A doctor’s office. Right here. But now it was gone? Was Rogan tripping out, or was he remembering something important?

I sure hoped it was something important. We didn’t have time to be wrong.

I went toward that Dumpster and jumped in.

“What are you doing?” Rogan demanded.

“Trying very hard not to die.”

I plunged my hands into muck and filth. Rotting food, discarded boxes, plastic bags filled with rancid garbage. Living on the streets had given me a necessary talent for Dumpster diving. You could find some really good stuff if you had the time and motivation to go searching.

Currently I didn’t have the time, but I sure as hell had the motivation.

I didn’t know what I was looking for. Even when I found it, I still wasn’t sure.

“24...23...22...”

It was a bell attached to a sign that read: Please ring bell and the receptionist will be right with you.

Okay, it was something.

I held my breath and rang the bell.

Nothing happened for a moment, and what little hope I had started to fade, but then I heard something. A heavy, metallic sound.

“Kira. Look.” Rogan pointed at the ground.

I looked over the edge of the Dumpster to see that a door in the ground had slid open. I hadn’t even noticed the edges of it before.

“10...9...8...”

I launched myself out of the garbage like somebody possessed and grabbed Rogan’s arm. There was a flight of stairs leading down. I pulled him with me, and we quickly descended into the semidarkness below.

“3...2...1...”

The door above us slammed shut with the force of a guillotine. When nothing else happened, I quickly continued down to the bottom of the stairs. A short hallway led into a white room.

Rogan met my gaze. “I don’t feel dead yet. Should we be celebrating?”

I thought about that as I tried to bring my breathing back down to a normal pace. “If we’re dead, then death wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Congratulations, Rogan and Kira, on successfully completing level two of Countdown.”

I rubbed my temples, finally allowing myself a measure of relief. “Is he going to say that every time? Because that’s going to get old really fast.”

Another camera appeared and whipped past my face. I watched my eyes narrow in the shiny surface. By no stretch of the imagination did I look happy. My dark brown hair was matted and tangled, and my long bangs were slicked against my forehead. My jaw was clenched tightly, and my dark eyes flashed with anger. I hated that digicam. Hated it more than I remembered hating anything for a very long time.

“You shouldn’t look directly at it,” Rogan advised, touching my arm with the hand that wasn’t clasped to his injured shoulder.

I shrugged away from him. “Why not?”

“You don’t want to give the Subscribers more than their money’s worth. They want you to look at them that way. It gets them off to see you suffer.” He pulled me away so that I wasn’t staring right into the lens anymore. “How did you know to ring the bell?”

I finally looked at him. “Lucky guess.”

“Yes,” a voice said. “Very lucky indeed.”

I turned to see that a door had opened and a man had entered the white room. He was tall and skinny, with short black hair and a trimmed goatee. He wore wire-framed glasses and a white doctor’s coat and he held a clipboard.

“Who are you?” I forced myself not to step backward. He was the first live person I’d seen other than Rogan since this nightmare had begun.

He stopped walking. “My name is Jonathan. I’m your liaison to Countdown.”

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead, his gaze flicked to Rogan. “You’re injured.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know that already, being our liaison and all.” Sarcasm mixed with the pain in Rogan’s voice.

“It’s worse than I thought it would be.” Jonathan let out a long sigh and shook his head. “We will have to wait a moment first.”

I looked around the room. He wasn’t moving, just staring straight ahead.

“What are we waiting for?” I asked.

Jonathan held up a finger. “One moment.”

Every muscle in my body was tense and ready to run, but instead I waited, standing silently in place. After a couple of minutes, a small door in the wall to my right opened up, and the silver ball camera left the room. The door closed behind it.

“What happened?” I said.

“Countdown is now on an official break,” Jonathan explained. “We have a little time to prep you for your next level.”

“I won’t last another level,” Rogan said.

Jonathan nodded. “I know. I’ve been monitoring your vitals.”

He left the room briefly and returned with a white box.

“Sit,” he instructed, and Rogan sat down in a white chair next to him.

I swear, everything in the entire room was white and scrubbed immaculately clean. It felt like a hospital—or, at least, the kind I’d once seen in an old movie.

Jonathan pushed away the material that covered Rogan’s wound. Then with no sound from the murderer other than a pained groan, Jonathan cleaned the wound and sprayed it with some sort of colorless substance. The skin around the cut turned a sick shade of green.

“Ah,” Jonathan breathed, peering closer. “The knife they used on you was tipped with calcine poison.”

“That would explain why I feel like my insides are melting,” Rogan grumbled. “Because they are.”

“What’s happening?” I demanded again. My fists were clenched so tightly at my sides that my fingernails dug painfully into the palms of my hands. Instead of relaxing, I let it happen. The pain helped me stay focused.

“What does it look like?” Jonathan asked, glancing up at me.

“Why are you helping him?”

“Kira,” Rogan growled. “Didn’t you hear the part about my insides melting?”

“But—”

“I can’t play this damn game if I have melting insides. Do you get that?”

“Of course I get that. But why is he helping you? Doesn’t he work for the damn game?”

“I do.” Jonathan nodded. “But that doesn’t mean I always agree with their idea of entertainment.”

With a syringe, he injected a blue-colored solution into Rogan’s shoulder. Rogan clenched his jaw. “That should be enough antidote to halt the damage and hopefully reverse it. You’re not going to feel great, but you’ll feel a lot better than you have.” He peered at the now clean wound. “The antidote will also help the wound knit rapidly. You shouldn’t require any stitches.”

“Thanks.” Rogan pulled away from Jonathan the moment he was finished.

He seemed oddly at ease with the man—as if they’d already met.

Jonathan closed the box. “Are you well, young lady?”

“Am I well?” I repeated. “No, I am not well. I want out of this game right now.”

“That’s not possible. But you’re doing fine so far. I anticipate that you will last several more levels.” He looked away.

My breath hitched. Could I fight him to escape from this place? If I had to? “I don’t belong here.”

“None of us belong here, Kira,” he said wearily. “Sometimes we need to do the best with what we’re given.”

“I would have to disagree with you there,” Rogan said.

Jonathan looked at him sharply. “Time has a tendency to change many things, Rogan.”

“Not as many as you might think. But time does have a way of making things a lot clearer.”

“If you say so.”

Rogan glowered at him. “I do.”

I watched their exchange with growing certainty. “Do you two know each other?”

Rogan flicked a glance at me. “No.”

Like hell they didn’t. I wasn’t that blind. Before I could ask any more questions, he turned to Jonathan.

“Are you going to get in trouble for fixing me?”

Jonathan didn’t answer the question. “We need to talk about level three.”

“I’d rather have a long nap in a comfortable bed,” Rogan said with a humorless snort.

“I’m sure you would. And you’re partially in luck. Since the broadcast is on a break, you’ve just entered a mandatory rest period.”

Rogan’s throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s not necessary.”

“I thought you said you wanted a nap?”

“On my own terms, yeah.”

Jonathan pressed a button on the wall and another holoscreen appeared in the middle of the room. The image of an average-looking man flickered into focus. “This is Bernard Jones. He is forty years old, has been married for fifteen years, and has one child. He makes his living as an accountant. He has dreams of moving to the Colony with his family and opening a restaurant there.”

My heart jumped into my throat. Another mention of the Colony. I was starting to believe it really existed—somewhere. Sometimes I wondered if it might just be a rumor.

“Sounds like a fun guy,” I said, trying to shield my interest in the secret city. “So, what are we supposed to do, get him to do our taxes?”

“No. To successfully complete level three you are required to assassinate him.”

My mouth dropped open. “Assassinate him?”

“That’s right. There will be no weapons provided for this level. You will have to use whatever means are available to locate and eliminate this target. You will be informed on your timeline once the level begins. That’s all I can tell you. I wish you good luck.”

Rogan was frowning. “Jonathan, there has to be some way out of this. You have to let me speak to—” He broke off and yelled, clutching his head. The next moment he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I watched him fall and then raised my horrified gaze to Jonathan.

“I’m very sorry,” he said.

I opened my mouth to say something, I wasn’t even sure what; but before I got out a word, the lightning-fast pain ripped through my brain and everything went black.