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Lizzie crunched down on the cookie. The artificial chocolate always tasted better to her than the real thing.

“I love you, you know.” Beck said it casually, like they said it to each other all the time, though they never had.

“You too,” Lizzie said. Without thinking, she put her hand over Beck’s.

Little Robby Kline saw her do it. She saw him see it, and yanked her hand away.

“I’m not contagious,” Beck said. “I’m not going to give you cholera or something.” She laughed, like she had made a joke, and Lizzie laughed, like it was funny, wondering whether she had anything left that Robby wanted, and if not, whether she could just return to the computer and keep playing the game until she found a set of choices that killed him off before he could ruin everything. It was okay to think like that, of course, because the game was a joke.

“You’ll come over tonight?” Beck said.

“Don’t I always?” Which they both knew wasn’t an answer.

“No one saw,” Beck promised.

“I know.”

“Don’t worry,” Beck begged her.

“I’m not.”

“I love you,” Beck said, not casually this time.

“I love you,” Lizzie echoed, meaning it and loving Beck all the more for believing it was all that mattered.

It took her until nearly midnight, but she did it. There was something about the night, right from the beginning, she sensed she was closing in. One game, she even made it as far as the Snake River before Beck succumbed to cancer in 2030 and Lizzie fell to Alzheimer’s a few years later. They would both be in their sixties by then, and maybe, she thought, that was good enough; maybe she should go home—which was Beck’s bed, Beck’s arms—lay down this burden, and sleep.

But on the next game, she made it to Fort Boise, which was the farthest she’d ever got. Too far to give up. Finally, three games later, she made it to Chimney Rock with her whole party intact, and though thieves came in the night near Fort Laramie, she had enough money to replace the stolen supplies once she got to town. She flipped the disk over, and both her parents succumbed to a plane crash at Independence Rock in 2004, but that was forever away; she pressed on. Paula OD’d at Soda Springs in 1992, but that was the farthest Lizzie’d gotten with her own health in good shape, and anyway, fuck Paula, who’d cheated on her all through senior year and then, after a teary confession and several weeks’ begging for forgiveness, had dumped Lizzie the day after graduation to run off with her Deconstructing Shakespeare TA.

The wagon rolled on and on.

At the Snake River, she hired an Indian guide in exchange for clothes, just as Robby had recommended. She passed Fort Boise, then the Blue Mountains. When the trail divided, she proceeded to The Dalles. There Beck died. Car accident, January twenty-seventh, which happened to be tomorrow.

Lizzie skipped the tombstone epitaph, too eager now to keep going and knowing if she paused she would lose her nerve, start over again, but there was no need for that, she thought, not when she was so close, not when the whole thing was just a stupid digital prank, sound and fury and nothing, when, if she could just
win
, just make it through and out without dying herself, she could maybe let the whole thing fall away, go to Beck, say whatever it was she needed to say, start fresh. Start clean. She knew what to do; she would be ruthless. From The Dalles, she took the river, and it happened, as it had never happened before.

The Willamette Valley unfurled before her, electric green meadow beneath wildly blue sky.

Congratulations! You have made it to Oregon!

She was the only member of her party to survive. This is what it feels like to survive, she told herself. It felt lonely in bed, in the dark, cold without a body pressed to hers, listening to the floors creak and the windows rattle, but for the first time in too long, Lizzie slept through the night.

It wasn’t until morning that she played her messages, the machine full up, all of them from Beck, wondering where she was, wondering why she hadn’t come home, Beck sad and then Beck drunk and then Beck threatening to come and find her, if not at her apartment then at the computer lab where she supposedly spent all her time. Beck had some trouble with the word
supposedly
, and when she got through it went on to slur more words on the topic of Lizzie’s secret life, speculations of whores in bars or asshole football players hidden in the closet, her favorite place, and then she called back to apologize, but “I’m still coming” because “we need to talk” because “I love you and you love me, I know that you do.”

Lizzie called, knowing Beck wouldn’t answer her phone, and she didn’t. Lizzie drove to school, certain she wouldn’t be there, either, and she wasn’t.

This is what it feels like to survive, Lizzie told herself. It felt lonely, but it was what she’d chosen, she thought, so she must have wanted it that way.

Robin Wasserman is the author of
The Waking Dark
and the forthcoming
Girls on Fire
. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies, including
Oz Reimagined
,
Robot Uprisings
, and
The End Is Now
, and she has published nonfiction in
Tin House
, the
Los Angeles Review of Books
, and
The New York Times.
She is a former children’s book editor who lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York, and has fonder memories of elementary school than this story would suggest. Find her at
www.robinwasserman.com
or on Twitter
@robinwasserman
.

Jimmy Nixon put a 7.62 mm bullet straight through the guard’s head.

With practiced ease he slipped through the verandah into the villa’s great room. He took the nearest flight on the imperial staircase. As he ascended the steps (all solid pink), he spotted the next sentry on the floor above. In one swift motion he scoped the sentry and popped a single round through his faceplate.

Who’s next, motherfuckers?

He heard shouts. Someone had found the first guard’s corpse. A knot of angry henchmen—their body armor solid pink—ran onto the floor below, their Mag 5s trained on Jimmy. With a voice command he engaged auto-assist, then turned and strafed. The system calculated trajectory for multiple head shots and adjusted his heads-up reticle as necessary; Jimmy dropped the thugs like targets at a carnival shooting gallery. An automated voice, as well as the readout on his display, revealed that his ammo was spent. He switched out the magazine and continued on to the second floor. Jimmy switched his goggles to IR and spotted the cartel leader’s heat signature in the master bedroom. He raced down the hall, kicked in the boss’s pink door, and…

The game crashed. Jimmy threw up his hands, nearly pulling the controller cable out of the console. “Shit!” He was nearly at the boss fight. In record time, too.

With a grunt of frustration he tossed the controller onto the coffee table.

A small digital clock next to the testing station told him that it was almost two a.m.
Damn, Kim’s gonna be pissed.
She’d probably called him six times by now. Jimmy snapped up the TV remote and shut the set off, dropped the remote, and stood. The floor-to-ceiling window behind the testing setup offered a scenic view of the Bay Area. Jimmy stretched and shuffled over next to the entertainment unit to have a look.
You could have a view like this every day if you get the job.

That was the plan. Jimmy had been hard at work since a little after nine, creating file after file of detailed texture maps for his portfolio. His buddy Ross McTiernan, the lucky bastard, had been working here at Full Metal Entertainment for six months. Ross was nice enough to not only promise Jimmy a referral but to offer up his own computer and software for him to use after hours, to create textures. If he played his cards right, he would get a job and be one of the guys making textures to replace the pink, untextured surfaces currently in the game.

Full Metal had developed one licensed game already—not a blockbuster, but a solid B title, and hordes of gamers were anxiously awaiting their next product, a first-person shooter.

It was currently in the alpha phase—playable by employees but not ready for beta, when it would be made available to public testers.
RECOIL!
was the name. “Pull the Trigger, Feel the Recoil!” It took place in a not-too-distant future where “multinational military forces, called Factions, have risen to prominence.” Through the tutorial, testers could choose one of two player character types—Enforcers, who fought against terrorism as well as organized crime and international drug operations, or Peacekeepers, who performed hostage rescue and close protection and were often embedded in hostile territory. Jimmy had just been an Enforcer. He had played as both types, though, and still wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Either way, the game was beyond badass and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to be a part of it. To be a texture artist at a promising new game developer before the age of twenty? How sick would that be?

Jimmy had taken a short break to play the game but had gotten swept away. Right about now it was time to shut off Ross’s computer and get back to his mom’s house, where Kim was no doubt still awake, waiting.

Just then a
click-click
echoed through the reception area outside. Jimmy leaned out and looked to his right, through the open office space to the main entry. Someone was opening one of the double doors. Did Ross come back? Another employee? The door swung open…

It was the building security guard.

Oh, shit.
Jimmy
technically
wasn’t supposed to be there. Ross told him it wouldn’t be a big deal, but what if the guard was making rounds? Jimmy didn’t have a badge.

Dumb ass, hide!

He ducked back into the small room and slipped behind the right side of the couch.

A voice called out, “Security, anyone on the floor?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit…

Should he just go out and explain? But how would it look for Jimmy’s chances at getting hired if he was discovered sneaking time on Ross’s machine?

“Hellooo?”

The voice was at the other end of the floor space now. The guard was searching the entire office area. Footsteps approached the testing room. Jimmy curled up, made himself as small as possible, looking to see if he was being reflected in the opposite window. He wasn’t, but he could see the reflection of the doorway.

The figure of the guard stepped closer, a black man, maybe in his late twenties. There was a creak of the security guard’s belt as he leaned in. Jimmy’s heart thundered up into his throat. He held his breath.

The guard leaned back out, turned, and walked away. Jimmy exhaled a long sigh of relief.

He heard the entry door, then the guard’s voice again: “All clear, fellas.”

There was a discussion between the guard and maybe two more people as they passed by. The other two sounded like the bad guys from that game
Cold War
. Russians? What the hell were Russians doing here?

The conversation receded as they made their way to the back of the office space. There was the sound of two heavy objects hitting the floor. Jimmy eased out from behind the couch and back to the testing room doorway.

He peeked around the corner. The office floor was one big rectangle, with the entry doors and reception desk to his right and, to his left, QA/IT cubicles (all personalized with action figures and merchandise ranging from
Star Wars
to
Doctor Who
). There were two large duffel bags on the floor next to the corner cubicle opposite him. One bag had square metal legs sticking out. The periphery of the space was lined with smaller rooms like the one he was in now, most of them offices or bullpens.

The security guard had used his electronic badge to open a door at the far corner, diagonal from Jimmy’s position. This was the server room, and the door usually remained locked. The guard was inside, facing sideways, talking to the men who had moved into the room but were now out of Jimmy’s line of sight. The guard said, “Well, if that’s that, I’ll take my cash and get outta your way.”

A husky voice replied, “Yes, we should settle up.”

The guard said,
“Hey!”
and reached for something on his belt. Jimmy saw the silencer-equipped barrel of a gun come into his field of view, saw the barrel twitch upward, and heard a muffled
Pop!
as the guard’s head jerked back. The man collapsed.

Holy shit Jesus Christ what the fuck—

The barrel dropped out of sight. The same husky voice said, “Paid in full,” then spoke to his unseen companion in Russian.

Was that—did I really just see that? I just saw someone get killed.
Jimmy’s hands covered his mouth. He was shaking all over, his heart jackhammering inside his chest.

Run, dumb ass!

The Russians were still inside the room, still out of sight. A loud, piercing noise blared out. To Jimmy it sounded like one of those big drills, the kind used to bore through concrete. If he could just make it to the entry doors…

Legs quivering, he took rapid steps out of the testing room and toward the main doors, trying desperately not to make a sound, eyes glued to the server room doorway as he went. His head spun back around just in time to avoid running straight into the reception desk. He was just a few feet away from the entry doors when the handle spun downward.

Someone was coming in.

Shit shit shit shit—

Jimmy dropped to all fours and scuttled past the rolling chair and secreted himself under the reception desk.

Maybe it’s another guard, maybe it’s the cops—

The drilling noise stopped. A man from the server room called out in Russian. The man who had just entered answered. Jimmy heard the sound of the front door locks engaging.

Jimmy’s heart skipped as footsteps approached the reception desk…

…and passed by, heading toward the other end of the room. Jimmy tried to control his breathing so he wouldn’t be heard. He peeked out just enough to see the new man, wearing a red jogging jacket, at the first cubicle on the right-hand side, rummaging through a long duffel bag he had placed on the cubicle desk. Behind his feet were the bags Jimmy had already seen on the floor.

Think, think…

If he tried to make a run for the entry doors, he would have to stop long enough to unlock them. Maybe he could outrun these guys but only to the elevators, and then he’d have to push the button and wait.

Then he’d be dead.

There was a small hallway and exit at the back of the room that led to stairs, but there was no way he could make it past the guy who had just come in.

Phones. You need a phone,
he thought.
Call the police.

Right. He had brought his own cell phone, but it was in the artists’ bullpen, charging, and the artists’ bullpen was right by the server room. So no dice. But if he could crawl into the level designers’ bullpen, which was next to the testing room, he could use one of their desk phones. There was a stand-up of
RECOIL!
’s main character, Brock Johnson, behind the reception desk that could help block him from view as he relocated. Jimmy looked over at the Russian; the guy was still occupied with the bag.

Now or never.

Jimmy scurried on hands and knees across the short open space to the designers’ bullpen doorway. Once inside, he tried again to slow his breathing as he listened for any indications that he’d been detected. There was none.

The long, rectangular room was filled with workstations and had entryways on either end. Jimmy ran to a desk that was situated in the middle of the room, where he couldn’t be seen directly from either doorway. He picked up the receiver with a shaky hand, put it to his ear…

But there was no sound.

He looked at the base’s display, which would normally show the time and have menu options, but the screen was blank. Jimmy replaced the receiver and looked at the displays on the surrounding phones. All blank as well. He looked at the computers. Some of the guys left their computers on all night, but they were all password protected and he didn’t know any of their passwords.

The phones were all connected to the company’s local network. They must have shut off the network to this floor. Even if he could get on to a computer, he’d have no Internet access.

Maybe…maybe he could just hide out here until they did whatever it was they came to do.

Jimmy backed up against the wall near the second entryway. He could hear a voice in Russian come through a walkie-talkie. A Russian voice in the office responded; he leaned out just enough to see Red Jacket finish talking and place the walkie-talkie in the bag on the desk.

A man with spiky hair came out from the server room, muttering. It wasn’t the husky voice he’d heard before; this was someone else. How many trespassers was he dealing with at this point? Two on the main floor, another in the server room, and one more on the walkie. Four at least.

The new guy kneeled, opened one of the bags on the floor, and withdrew some kind of chainsaw. It had what looked like a collector or pan attached to it. The man pulled a plastic jug of water from the same bag.

He took the chainsaw and water and returned to the server room.

The floor…was that what the chainsaw was for, cutting through the floor? Jimmy’s dad installed fire-suppression systems for a living and was a tool nut. He’d heard him talk about wet saws; that must be what he had just seen. Was there something in the floor these guys wanted, or…maybe the level below?

TechniCom.

Jimmy remembered Ross talking about the company, and he’d seen some of the employees downstairs in the coffee shop. They always wore polo shirts and khakis. The rumor was they were a university team working off of a Department of Defense grant. Whatever they were developing was top secret. No one was allowed in their work area. There had been some talk—where it came from, no one knew exactly—that the team was focused on cutting-edge learning augmentation: a direct neural interface. Kind of like virtual reality, but a giant leap forward.

Whatever TechniCom was working on, it looked like these Russians were breaking in to steal it.

Who cares? Leave it to the cops. Just hide out. If they don’t know you’re here…

All of a sudden LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” blared from the artists’ bull pen.

Fuck!
It was Jimmy’s ringtone. Kim was calling. The two Russians shared a look. The man with the chainsaw said something and returned to the server room. Red Jacket walked into the artists’ bullpen and came out a second later with Jimmy’s now silent cell phone in his hand.

You gotta get out of here…

If he could just get to his vehicle. He scurried to the windows at the back of the room and looked down onto the parking lot. There was his piece-of-shit hand-me-down purple Festiva, sitting all alone save for a large, white, unmarked van. Just then another car pulled into the lot from around the back…

A cop car.

Jimmy balled his fists and had to physically restrain himself from pounding on the glass. The car passed by the van without stopping, then pulled onto the small access road and headed out toward the main street.

No!

A man emerged from the white van, holding a walkie-talkie. He pressed a button and spoke into it. His staticky voice sounded from the main floor.

There were several business buildings in this corporate park. The cop might remain close by. If only Jimmy had a way of signaling him…

He ran back to the doorway and peeked out.