Assault or Attrition (30 page)

“You want to
know how I do it,” she asked. I didn’t need to speak – she was
intuiting every thought as it drifted in and out of my mind.

I nodded.

Weaving
produced a paintbrush from thin air and swirled it, altering her
physical appearance with an elegant looping stroke. “I am a
creator,” she explained. The Nightmare was no longer the
raven-haired mistress of death that had first appeared before me.
She was just a girl, like any young, auburn-haired girl you’d pass
on the street, without any distinctive features that would stand
out in your memory. “I design myself, and I design my surroundings.
You see only what I want you to see.”

“And how do
you—”

“Kill people?”
She interrupted. “I don’t. I have never taken a single human life.
It’s not in my nature.”

“Then what is?”
I asked.

“Fear. It’s
what destroys people – eats away at them, stripping away everything
their life might have been. I simply open the door. Once their
fears take hold, the physical representation of their worst
nightmare takes form. And,” she added with a twitch of a smile,
“it’s usually quite painful. Let us begin.”

With a swirl of
her paintbrush she became my father, enormous and looming, towering
above as if I were a five-year-old boy. He scolded me, his angry
words slamming into my eardrums. I saw a vision of myself:
crouched, cowering in the corner of my room as I always had,
waiting for the storm to pass.

Another
brushstroke created the vision of my best friend, Gavin. The young,
accomplished man whom I’d always admired, but whose presence was a
constant reminder of the potential I had wasted, and the years I
would never get back. It was relief to see him, but my feelings of
inadequacy quickly bubbled to the surface.

And then she
became Cameron Frost. A walking, talking corpse, bleeding profusely
from a gaping wound in his throat – the hole I’d blasted before
winning Arena Mode.

All of the
fears from my past, present, and future had been put on display.
Every insecurity. Each regrettable moment. They were all
manifesting before me, more vivid than my most horrific nightmares.
Weaving had stripped away my armor, and struck me with the raw,
unfiltered torment of each one, forcing me to absorb their full
impact – though not for the first time. And in light of recent
events, my fears seemed like trivialities.

“I think we
might be at a stalemate,” I said.

“I think not,”
she declared, brimming with confidence. With a swirl of mixing
paint she resumed her previous form, dark and slender. “There is
something deep within you...something that consumes you while you
lie awake at night. What do you
fear
, Matthew Moxon? Let it
wash over you, and choose the instrument of your death.”

I just shook my
head. “My fears won’t manifest into anything. Stabbed, shot,
burned, sitting through the Star Wars prequels for all
eternity...none of it scares me. Because I know exactly how my
story ends.”

I began
speaking in a mixture of thoughts and words, exposing my innermost
secrets. “When they went in—”

Her eyes
widened. “They didn’t get it all.”

I shrugged.
“You’d think a billionaire could get better treatment.”

“In
Argentina...you wanted them to give you powers. Make you like
us.”

“That’s right,”
I sighed. “The neurologists went in looking for whatever acts as a
catalyst. They found something else.”

“How long?” She
asked.

“Months. Years.
No one knows. The miracles of science, right? They can tell you the
show is over, but not when the curtain is gonna fall.”

“You truly
don’t fear it.” It was a statement, not a question. She was
intrigued, and genuinely fascinated.

“Not anymore.
Because she’s going to make it with or without me.”

The Nightmare’s
black painted lips curled into a smile. “You don’t deserve
her.”

I let out a
short laugh. “My brain is dying but I’m not an idiot. I’ve known
that all along.”

“Without fear,”
she said plainly, “there is nothing more I can do. I have no power
over you.”

“Sorry to
disappoint.”

The Nightmare’s
hair, eyes and dress bled into the surrounding darkness, and the
rest of her quickly followed. I heard the echo of her final words
as soon as she’d disappeared. “I am not the one who will be
disappointed.”

The egg began
to crack, allowing the lights from Times Square to penetrate the
core, seeping through one ray at a time. With a pressurized pop the
thin black shell burst from around me, raining down shards that
dissipated as they fell.

They were
frozen, locked into poses like eerily-lifelike replicas in a wax
museum.
Brynja’s hand rested on Peyton’s shoulder, and
McGarrity looked on from behind.

And, somehow,
when the egg shattered, I had resumed my previous position as well:
I was face-to-face with Peyton, holding her in my arms, with our
lips just inches apart. When I drew back we all blinked and shook
our heads, suddenly refreshed and alert.

“Where is she?”
Peyton asked, gazing curiously around the abandoned streetscape.
The Nightmare was nowhere to be seen. At the mid-point of the
intersection where she’d once stood was a flat, grey obelisk
protruding from the asphalt, with the familiar glowing handprint,
inviting us to register. The gateway to the fourth and final level
was finally within our reach.

I wanted to
tell them what had happened – how my confrontation with The
Nightmare had ended – but there was no time. I raced towards the
obelisk. When I placed my hand into the outline and spoke my name,
Cameron Frost’s booming digital voice congratulated me. I’d won. My
name and face appeared in the sky, plastered across the rooftop
like one of the garish advertisements that were a trademark of
uptown Manhattan. As the first person to register on the third and
final level, I was deemed the sole survivor, and would be granted
access to the ‘ultimate freedom’ in the Hall of Victors as my
reward.

A moment passed
and nothing happened. No pods arrived, and no transportation to the
lower level presented itself. I scanned the intersection until the
double doors of a pizzeria across the street flew open, sending a
shaft of golden light across the pavement.

We all
approached cautiously. Once we reached the sidewalk, we realized
the light source was emanating from an elevator; it was an ornately
decorated lift with a metallic bronze interior. When we stepped
aboard, I pressed the sole button on the dash, closing the doors
and triggering our descent.

After a short
freefall the elevator gradually lowered to a stop, and the doors
slid open with a soft ping, revealing the bottom level of The
Spiral. The hall, which was half-built, had a distinct Roman theme;
towering columns, marble statues, and leveled seating that
stretched in an oval around the perimeter. Hundreds of spectators
would be able to watch the event from this area on towering
holo-screens, and could greet the winner when he or she arrived at
the Hall of Victors.

On a raised
platform encircled by four towering white columns sat the ‘ultimate
freedom’ that Cameron Frost had boasted about: it was a jet. A
short, angular craft that shimmered like gold under the stadium
lights. It was ultra-modern, like a concept drawing that had been
realized in its early test phases. With short wings and no visible
engines, I wasn’t sure how the craft would even take flight; for
all I knew it was a replica, and not even the finished prize. Much
of the hall, beyond the seating and columns, was nothing more than
unfinished scaffolding and piles of wood – most of it still
strapped to skids that had been unloaded from abandoned
forklifts.

“
Nice
,”
McGarrity said with a grin, mounting the podium. He walked
alongside the jet and ran his hand over the smooth surface. “I
don’t know how I’m going to get this baby out of here, but I’ve
always wanted my own private jet.”

“You guys,”
Peyton said, craning her neck in every direction. “He’s right – we
can’t get it out of here. Because there
is
no tunnel.”

The schematic
we were shown prior to entering The Spiral indicated an exit that
led from the west side of the fortress, connecting to the surface.
It was nowhere to be seen. A pile of boulders stretched from floor
to ceiling on the far side of the hall, barricading what I assumed
was the mouth of the tunnel. There must have been a million tons of
rock sealing it off. It was likely a security precaution, built
into the construction team’s contract in the event of their
dismissal – and unfortunately, the structural change was never
logged into the fortress’ database.

“We’re sealed
in,” Brynja said gravely. “It’s game over.”

“There has to
be another way out,” Peyton shouted.

A shockwave
reverberated through the room, sprinkling plaster and dust down
around us. The entire foundation shook, cracking the concrete floor
beneath our feet. The first bomb had made contact with the
fortress. It was collapsing, one level at a time.

“
It’s no
use,” McGarrity shouted.
He was hacking away like a lumberjack
with a six-foot axe made of light, breaking chunks of rock away
from the mouth of the collapsed tunnel. “This is taking too long.
It’ll take days to chop through this shit.”

Another blast
rocked The Spiral.

And then
another.

More plaster
fell from the unfinished ceiling, along with a lighting rig. The
bulbs smashed into the levelled seating, and a length of metal
scaffolding followed. The floor shook so violently that Peyton
nearly fell over, holding my hand for balance as she stumbled.

“We’re running
out of time,” Brynja screamed, kicking a pile of rocks across the
hall.

“Wait,” Peyton
said, carefully studying the shimmering gold aircraft that sat atop
the podium. “Frost kept calling the prize ‘the ultimate freedom’,
right? Maybe there’s more to this jet than we think.”

McGarrity’s axe
faded away, and he joined us in the center of the hall where the
jet was located. “Like what?” he asked between heavy breaths. “If
it can shoot missiles, maybe we can blast our way out?”

I had my doubts
that Cameron Frost would present the winner of Arena Mode with a
jet that was armed with military grade weapons, but stranger things
have happened. In my time living at Fortress 23 I learned to never
underestimate him; when it came to ingenuity – no matter how
twisted or immoral – Frost never ceased to amaze.

I pressed my
palm into the side of the jet and a door slid open, completely
seamless in its smooth golden exterior. We climbed aboard and into
the cockpit. When I took the pilot’s seat I was overwhelmed by the
sheer number of buttons, levers and touch-screens that spread
across the panel. Scanning the dashboard, I was deciding where to
start when another blast rocked the fortress, toppling a number of
marble columns around us.

The overhead
lights flickered, and across the room I spotted water seeping
through the elevator we had arrived in. The Spiral was on the verge
of collapse, and the flooding we’d caused on the second level was
now making its way downward. It occurred to me that the room we
were in – The Hall of Victors – was by far the smallest in The
Spiral; it could have fit inside of the lake on level one several
times over. That much water would flood The Hall from top to bottom
with plenty to spare.

We all
exchanged a panicked glance. I immediately began pressing buttons
and pulling levers, with no real understanding of what I was doing.
I’d seen Mac do this in my own jet dozens of times, but this was a
completely different configuration, and there wasn’t a single label
on the dash.

Another blast
wave hit and Brynja had seen enough. “
Fuck
this shit!” She
slammed her hand down on the controls, slapping her palm onto what
must have been a touch-screen. The jet hummed with power and the
cockpit lights burst to life, illuminating a golden glow all around
us.

“Matthew
Moxon,” Frost’s voice chimed from the dashboard. A small
holo-screen materialized with an image of his disembodied head.
“Congratulations, and welcome to your prize: the Ultimate Freedom.
This is the prototype of my new jet, the TT-100. This machine will
revolutionize the face of mass transportation, and within the next
decade, will have a profound impact on the—”

“Enough with
the infomercial!” I interrupted. “We
get
it – how does it
work
?”

“And does it
fire missiles?” McGarrity added eagerly, leaning over my
shoulder.

“I’m sorry,”
Frost’s hologram said, “please rephrase the question.”

“How do we get
out of here?” Brynja said, impatiently rapping her fingers against
the dash. As she asked the question, the Hall’s overhead lights
fizzled out, and the water began to rise around us. It was
beginning to fill the room, and the tide was rocking the jet off of
its podium.

“The TT-100,”
Frost explained calmly, “will transport the victor, Matthew Moxon,
and any warriors he has aligned himself with to a destination of
his choosing. But first, he must unlock the navigation by speaking
the truth.”

“The truth is
that I’m pissed off,” I shouted. “Let’s go!”

“I’m detecting
three additional competitors aboard the jet with you,” Frost
continued in a frustratingly slow cadence. It might have been the
ceiling caving in around us or the rising water level that
threatened to drown us in a cavernous tomb, but Frost seemed to be
really taking his time – even more so than usual. “Your journey
will begin once you’ve revealed a truth that you’ve been concealing
from your allies.”