Vanhi disappeared, replaced with a screen that said LOADING … like an 8-bit horizontal scroller. Just before, the hearts on her life meter had begun dropping precipitously as the machines shut off and her chest lay still. Every heart would flash six times, then half would disappear, then six more flashes, another half gone … counting down to death that would come in minutes.
“Charlie, she’s dying,” Kenny said.
“I know.”
Then the progress bar hit 100 percent and the game appeared, an old-school 2-D street-fighting game. The pixilated goons had white masks and iron bars and hooded cloaks. In the middle of their circle was a little digital version of Tim Fletcher, a caricature of his blond hair and bulging biceps. His face was cartoonized from the football roster, same smug smirk. Vanhi’s life meter was at the top left, still ticking down. Now Tim’s was on the right.
For a moment, Charlie thought he was being asked to play the role of Tim, fighting his way out of the crowd, an interesting act of empathy.
But one tap on the icons at the bottom of his vision and all was clear. As he hit the button, the thug closest to Tim raised his pipe and swung through the air, hitting nothing—a little MIDI whoosh rang out. Charlie tapped the arrow, and the thug moved a step closer to cartoon Tim. The next blow would connect.
“It’s too easy,” Charlie said. “It’s three against one. Unless…”
“You don’t think…,” Kenny said, eyes wide.
“No…”
Vanhi’s hearts were dropping.
“Charlie, we don’t have much time.”
“I know, but…” Charlie felt a sickening lump in his throat.
“We don’t know that there’s any connection between this and real life.”
“Why else would it be so simple?”
“We don’t know,” Kenny said. “But we do know Vanhi’s dying, for real.” Kenny looked at Charlie miserably. “We can’t be sure we’re hurting our enemy. But we know we’re saving our best friend. That has to make it okay, right?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
The goons stood around cartoon Tim, the only movement the steady, rhythmic animation of their breathing.
Charlie said, “We have to at least see … if it’s even what the Game wants.”
Kenny nodded slowly. “Okay. Once.”
Charlie tapped again, and the pipe swung. Thunk! The little cartoon Tim buckled. A comical wee woo woo woo slide-whistled as he went down on one knee.
Tim’s life meter went down. Vanhi’s went up, the same amount.
“Oh, no,” Kenny said.
“Don’t touch it.”
“Charlie, she’s dying.”
“I know. I said you don’t touch it.”
“We’ll do it together.”
“No. You already saved us once, with your swastikas.” Charlie met Kenny’s eyes. “Yeah, I know. That had to be for you. That’s how the Game is. This has to be for me.”
The men circled around Tim.
“Do you want money?” he asked. “Is that it? I can get money.”
No answer.
“Then what?”
He didn’t sound scared. He’d been on the other side of these circles, some victim in the middle. Everybody gets a turn in the ring, he told himself. But unlike that little coward Alex, who nearly pissed himself, Tim would fight to the death. And it wouldn’t be his death.
“Come on, then.” He closed his fists.
Then one of the men swung his lead pipe through the air, a few feet away, hitting nothing. It made a violent, whisking sound.
“Quick fucking around.”
Then suddenly, the same man took a step forward, clearing the distance between them. He waited there, pipe raised.
“You bastard. Fucking do it.”
An erratic pause—then suddenly, savagely, the man swung. Tim tried to dodge right but he was boxed in and the pipe landed squarely.
He felt pain blossom in the meat between his neck and shoulder. His vision flickered. He felt his knees weaken and went down on one. But he was strong. He rallied and lifted himself back up. He was Tim Fletcher, goddamnit. Two-time state champion. Another pipe cracked against his ribs, and he realized he might die.
What popped into his head was Mary.
Charlie was in a trance now. He had no choice. Cartoon Tim was fighting back. He even managed to wrestle one of the video-game villains down, and Vanhi’s life meter dropped again, dangerously low. Kenny reached out and helped Charlie, pulling another hooded figure into the fight.
He gave Charlie a worried look. “For Vanhi.”
“For Vanhi.”
They could see Vanhi’s life hanging in the balance. The hearts fluttered back and forth. Charlie gritted his teeth. He hit the button and the man took another swing.
And another.
And another.
Finally, it was too much for Tim to bear, and his little avatar went down and cradled on the ground as the blows kept coming. Charlie felt his gut clench as the life meter for Tim dropped low. Each blow helped Tim’s hearts go to Vanhi’s side, but how many would it take? How low would Tim have to sink toward his own death for Vanhi to survive? Another blow, with cartoon Tim cradled on the ground, Vanhi’s meter closer to full, but every time Charlie paused, her hearts started dropping again rapidly, her machines still off. Come on. Another blow, Vanhi’s life meter inching stronger, Charlie cringing as he gave Tim another blow, and then Vanhi’s meter maxed out, flashing red and dinging, and the screen changed.
They could see Vanhi again, in her hospital room. Her machines roared back to life, and her breathing resumed, her chest rising gently up and down. Her vitals normalized. Death, the figure superimposed on her screen, lowered his shears. He walked away. The audience, unseen in front of Charlie and Kenny, applauded.
“She’s okay.” Kenny’s eyes crinkled with relief.
The screen changed back to the cartoon street fight. Tim was flat on the ground. He still had half a heart left. His little form was breathing slightly, facedown against the concrete.
“Vanhi’s okay,” Charlie said. “We can stop.”
“Yeah, we can stop.” Kenny agreed, and they looked at each other.
“Why is it still showing Tim?” Charlie asked slowly.
“Isn’t the fight over?”
But the same terrible idea had already occurred to them both.
“Is one of us going to say it?” Kenny said finally.
They watched that little cartoon character, barely breathing. Feeling no pain.
“‘If you and your friends want to leave the Game, you have to take a life.’”
“‘Human sacrifice.’”
“That’s what Scott Parker said.”
It would be so easy. Only half a heart left. And by appearances, he wasn’t even conscious. Just one more click. One more press of the same button. He wouldn’t feel a thing.
And they would be free.
The hooded men stood there, hovering over Tim, waiting for a command. As if reading Kenny’s and Charlie’s minds, a door appeared on the brick wall behind the action. The sign over it said EXIT.
“We still have our virus,” Kenny whispered.
“If it works.”
Kenny nodded. “How much more time?”
Charlie looked at his watch. “Ten minutes. Less.”
But the EXIT sign began blinking over the door.
Fading away.
Charlie stared at Tim on the screen and tried to make himself angry. He thought about Mary’s bruises. Tim smashing him against the lockers. Threatening Mary’s family. Driving Alex to suicide.
There was no way the virus would work. It was a pipe dream. Charlie got himself angrier and angrier. Could he raise his finger to tap the button, just a tap, one more time?
“Charlie,” Kenny said softly, putting his hand on Charlie’s forearm. “No.”
Charlie looked at him. “I wasn’t going to.”
“I know.” Kenny nodded a little too much. “I know.”