Relic (16 page)

“We're the judges,” the scrawny man said, stroking his goatee. His large partner stood unmoving, hands clasped behind his back, his narrowed eyes moving down the line, sizing us up with a piercing glare. “My name is Dyson,” the man with the goatee continued, “and this is Tank.” He paused and seemed to dare us to laugh. When no one did, he continued. “We'll show you how to use your weapons, break you into two teams, and then you'll be set loose.”

A couple of the girls on my right giggled, and Colin kept rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet like he was preparing to take flight. Pretty much everyone was smiling and I was just starting to think that maybe this wasn't such a bad idea when my gaze fell on Eric and Rodney. They weren't smiling, but they seemed pleased. Their eyes were glued to me in a murderous stare, and they kept rubbing their hands.
Great
.

As if reading my mind, Lisa leaned over and said, “We have guns too, Dean. Being big won't mean a thing out there. In fact, it will just make them easier to hit.”

“Good point,” I said, feeling a little better.

“First rule,” Tank said in a deep voice. “When you're not in the game, you keep your gun pointed down.” He plucked a gun from the table and demonstrated.

“The guns can go off by accident,” Dyson added, “and if you swing it around, it might go off.” Tank raised the gun and swung it wildly at our group. Girls and guys screamed alike, and Rylee, who was standing behind me, grabbed my shoulder.

“Sorry,” she whispered, then laughed.

I laughed weakly and managed to say, “Any time.” I caught Colin raising his eyebrows at me. He gave an approving and somewhat mischievous nod. I started to turn back to Tank and Dyson and spotted Eric once more. He looked like someone had just shoved a gym sock in his mouth. He kept glancing from me to Rylee.

“Rule two,” Dyson said, “if you get shot, shout
Hit!
, raise your gun over your head, and walk back to your team's end zone. And if you're doing the shooting and someone yells hit, stop shooting them.” A metal man-shaped target popped up on the right, and Tank turned and fired. A paintball splattered across the target's head and then it fell back, but Tank fired again and moved forward until he was standing above the target and then fired at least a dozen more times.

“That,” Dyson said when Tank had finished, “is what we
don't
want to see.” The metal target rose again, paint dripping down its featureless face.

Eric caught my attention and pointed, first at me and then at the target. Rodney nodded and flashed a creepy, toothy grin that sent a shiver up my back.

“Now,” Dyson said, “does anyone have their own guns? We'll need to check them out.”

“We do.” Eric gave a quick wave.

“No worries, Feldman. We know your guns.” He turned to the group. “Anyone else?”

“They brought their own guns?” I whispered.

Rylee spoke from behind me. “I heard that Eric and Rodney play paintball a few times a week.”

“Are you kidding me?” Colin asked.

She shook her head. “No, I'm not. I even heard that one of those guys is Rodney's brother.”

Colin and I gasped at the same time.

“Rodney has a brother?” Lisa asked.

If it was anyone, it was Tank. The two of them clearly came from the same genetic pool. If he was anything like Rodney, I wasn't sure we'd get out of this alive. Dyson called us forward and handed us our guns. He made each of us take a couple practice shots at the pop-up target, and in a matter of minutes, we were all geared up. I glanced over at Rodney and Eric and suddenly felt very faint. Where our guns were short and boxy, their guns were sleek and professional looking.

Rodney looked like a character out of a war movie. He had a long-barreled gun with a scope resting on his shoulder and a pistol strapped to his thigh. Eric had a smaller weapon, but it was no less menacing than Rodney's.

“Those do shoot paintballs, right?” someone on my right asked, looking at the two bullies.

Colin followed my gaze and said, “Oh wow!” He seemed to forget himself and stepped up to Eric to examine the guns. “That's an MP5, isn't it? And that…” He pointed to the gun strapped to Eric's thigh. “That's a 9 mm, right?” He turned to Rodney. “And that's a Tippman X7 sniper rifle, isn't it?” Colin knew guns not because he had any actual experience with them, but because of video games. He loved his war games and studied the weapons manuals for those games more than he studied history for school.

As an answer, Eric swung around and fired two shots at the metal target and then pulled the pistol from his thigh and fired again. All three shots splattered against the target. “Don't worry, Colin,” he said, “you'll be getting a good look at these weapons soon enough.”

“Save it for the field,” Dyson said.

Eric nodded and turned back to me and tapped the top of his gun, a gesture I took as some kind of warning. If he was trying to freak me out, it was working.

Dyson and Tank divided us right down the middle, forming two teams, and then stepped forward. “Team A,” Dyson said, pointing to his right. “Tank will take you to the other side of the warehouse, where you'll find your flag. You'll have just a couple minutes to work out a strategy, and then the game will start.”

“Is there a whistle or something?” asked Gavin Richardson, an eleventh grader from the newly formed Team A.

“No whistles,” Dyson said, “but don't worry. You'll know when the game is starting.” There was some more giggling as Tank led Team A out of sight and then Dyson turned to us. “Team B, better make your plan.”

Rylee waved everyone over, and we all huddled up. “Okay,” she said, smiling, “who's played this before?” Colin's hand shot up.

“You've never played this before,” I said.

“I did,” he said, “Once. But I play Comrade Killer online all the time. It's just like this. Trust me, I know strategy.”

“Comrade Killer?” one of the other girls asked.

“It's a war game,” Colin said. His smile widened. “If it doesn't work, someone else can lead on the next one.”

“Thirty seconds,” Dyson shouted for the benefit of the whole warehouse.

“Okay, Colin,” Rylee said. “Tell us what to do.”

Colin laid out a plan in seconds. My job was to get to one of the gangways on the right and pick off the other team as they ran by. Easy enough if I could get there, but I figured the other team would be thinking the same thing, so I'd have to be fast.

“Five, four, three,” Dyson yelled, “two, one.” An evil smile spread across Dyson's face. “Welcome to…
The Killing Field!
”

 

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The large overhead lights flicked out and were replaced by black lights that illuminated all kinds of graffiti around the building that had, up until then, been invisible. Strobe lights flashed, and thin beams of red, green, blue, and yellow lights lanced out from the ceiling and surrounding walls. In a flash, everyone except the two people Colin had designated to stay behind to guard the flag surged forward.

I hunched and sprinted for the gangway. There were at least a few seconds when I wouldn't have to worry about getting shot. The gangway was closer to our base so I didn't have far to go. I spun around corners without looking and made it to the metal staircase in a flash. I climbed the steps and positioned myself behind a piece of plywood that leaned loosely against the metal railing. I squinted through the plastic face mask and strained to see movement. The flashing lights made the whole building look alive. My pulse raced with anticipation. I hadn't even pulled the trigger yet, and I already loved this game.

The sound of rapid fire filled the air like a muffled burst of firecrackers.

“Hit!” I heard it shouted more than once, along with excited screams and voices shouting directions to one another. The voices were raised to be heard above the ambient ruckus of explosions and futuristic laser blasts. Then something moved on the floor below, just to the right of one of the walls. I took aim and squeezed the trigger. No one yelled “Hit!” and more movement flitted around the floor below. I shot as fast as I could squeeze the trigger, not really aiming, just raining down paintballs as fast and furiously as I could. When I stopped to reload, the sniveling, mocking voice of Eric Feldman rose up from below.

“Missed me, Curse.”

I had just refilled my ammo when something the size of my fist landed beside me. I picked it up and squeezed it. It was like a squishy mass of plastic that seemed to be getting harder and harder in my hand. Sweat rolled into my eyes, and it took a couple blinks before I recognized the shape of the object as a plastic grenade.

Toys?
I thought.
They're throwing toys at me so that I…what? Run away thinking it's a real grenade?
I squeezed the grenade again; it was rock hard now. I held it up, thinking I might as well send it back over the edge, but just as I was about to toss it over, it exploded… Well, it didn't so much as explode as it
popped
. Like a water balloon, only somehow pressurized. In a blink, I was covered in yellow paint. I used the back of my hand to wipe the plastic face shield and looked around. I immediately recognized Eric and Rodney climbing up from either end of the gangway.

“Paint grenade,” Eric said triumphantly. He looked at Rodney. “Did you hear him yell ‘hit'?”

Rodney shook his head. “Maybe he's not hit yet.”

In the two or three seconds it took for me to realize what was happening and to formulate the thought to yell “Hit!” Eric and Rodney must've unloaded fifty paintballs at me. It felt like something between a hornet's sting and being stuck naked in a hail storm. When the word finally came out of my mouth in a shriek of desperation, the two jerks turned and ran away, laughing.

I limped back down the metal staircase and back to our end zone, where my team was celebrating with laughter and high fives.

“You got their flag?” I croaked.

They turned, and all excitement drained from their faces.

“Dean?” Lisa asked. “Is that you?”

“What happened?” Colin said.

“Rodney and Eric,” I said.

“Did they bring paint brushes or something?” Colin started laughing, as did everyone else. I was in far too much pain to laugh at myself.

Dyson walked up and nodded knowingly. “Looks like the third-generation GPM-12 paint grenade. Those are single-use and pretty expensive.” He looked me up and down. “Pretty effective.”

“Did they shoot you too?” Colin asked.

I shrugged. “Um, yeah. I think I was hit a couple times.” I turned back to the team. “At least we got their flag.”

“Oh, we got it all right,” Rylee said as more high fives were exchanged. “Colin's strategy worked perfectly.” Colin bowed.

“Good,” I said. “If I'm going to get painted up like this, we better at least win.”

“Round two begins in thirty seconds,” Dyson said.

I rolled my shoulders and tried to block out the stinging pain. “Round two. Good. Time for some payback.”

Colin called the play again. This time he let me stay back and guard the flag with Rylee. All we had to do was hunker down behind a wooden crate and pick off anyone who got close to the flag.

“Thanks again for inviting me, Dean,” Rylee said as she hunkered down beside me once the game was underway. “I'm glad I came. I meant to ask if you were okay. Last time I saw you, museum security was dragging you away.”

“Yeah,” I said without hesitating. “I'm fine. It's all sorted out.”

“Good.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than a yellow splatter of paint covered her face mask. “Hit!” she yelled. I flattened behind the crate while she stood up, lifted her gun over her head, and walked over to the safe zone.

I lifted my gun and fired off a couple shots in the direction the blasts had come from. Then a yellow blast hit the ammo container on my gun and knocked it off. I managed two more shots until I started shooting blanks. My paint balls had scattered all over the ground, and I was about to reach for one when Eric stepped into our end zone, his MP5 leveled at his shoulder. He fired a couple shots that struck a few inches in front of my feet and then laughed.

“You again?” he said. “We were hoping for Colin or Lisa this time.”

We
, I thought.
Where's Rodney?
My question was answered a second later when my coveralls were pulled from behind and something round and rubbery was shoved down my back, against my bare skin.

 

To be fair, when the grenade popped, it really didn't hurt. It just felt like a water balloon popping. Still, I yelled “Hit!” right away so I couldn't be shot, and I stood uncomfortably as paint oozed down my back, into my pants, and down my legs. It was disgusting, and I wondered if any of my clothes were salvageable.

There were three more rounds after that, and in the end Eric and Rodney's team won three, while we only won twice. By the time we finished, Colin had gotten peppered with so many paintballs that he was as yellow as I was, although I was probably more yellow underneath the coveralls. Eric and Rodney were like a pair of super soldiers, picking off anyone and everyone.

“Guns down,” Dyson barked. Everyone did as they were told and pointed the barrels of their weapons to the floor. “Good battle,” he said. “We get a lot of people who want to pretend to be commandos for a day, and none of them have been as good as you guys.”

I was pretty sure it was something he said to everyone who came for a round of paintball, or at least every group of kids, but I pretended it wasn't. Even though we had only won twice, Colin beamed, and I couldn't help but smile too. For someone who had only played once before, he did amazingly well as a leader. I almost laughed. He wasn't going to let me—or anyone else, for that matter—forget his hand in the victories. Who would have thought that he'd be able to translate all those hours of online game play into real life?