The Game (9 page)

Singleton flips a couple of switches near
Potter’s neck and steps outside the sphere. Paul doesn’t follow so
he looks back inside to see the younger man leaning over the
General’s body. “You okay?” he asks for the second time.

Paul nods again and then addresses the
unconscious body, “Have a nice trip, asshole.” He slaps the
General’s slack face—hard.

And as if that weren’t enough, he slaps him
again—harder.

The two men join Georgia in the control room.
There are no windows. Before them, the wall and ceiling are one
large, curved surface. A high definition projection system will
transmit the images onto the curved surface, giving them the same
view as that of the test subject—who, in this case, is General
Potter.

Singleton takes a seat beside her. “Any idea
what we can expect?”

She is silent for a moment. Her fingers dance
across a computer keyboard as she completes uploading information
into the system linking the software to Potter’s brain. She says,
“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”

Paul takes a seat opposite the others. He
stares at her intently and the look is slightly unnerving. His gaze
is that of a much older man. She knows it’s just a reflection of
Rob’s personality showing through, but it still seems
impossible.

She addresses the younger man, “When you and
Rob…” She glances up and meets his eyes.

He nods to her, silently telling her to go
on.

She clears her throat. “Well, when the two of
you were hooked up, the transmission was supposed to only work one
way—from Paul in the simulator to Rob at the other end of the
line—to put it in the simplest of terms. In all the other
experiments, that one-way connection was the undoing of the person
in the simulator. Their consciousness left the simulator, entered
and controlled the avatar, but then was unable to return
again.

“
For some reason (and for all I
know, even the General never found out how it happened), during
your simulation, the mental connection worked two ways. While we
thought that Rob was completely brain dead, we were apparently
wrong, and his consciousness found a way to transfer into Paul and
share residence—so to speak.”

Singleton looks thoughtful. He says, “What if
that was the key?”

She turns to him, “What do you
mean?”

“
What if the fact that he
wasn’t
brain dead is what caused the mental transfer—and all
the others actually
were
brain dead? In all those other
tests, the subject sent out their mental capabilities into a host
whose brain was incapable of containing it. Kind of like
overloading a circuit breaker in your home—at some point it draws
too much electricity and blows.”

She’s nodding now. It makes sense. Until Paul
showed up a few weeks ago, the question that Rob’s brain wasn’t
dead never crossed their minds. She had hoped all those years ago,
but she never really knew—until recently. “That’s got to be it,”
she says.

Paul asks, “So what about now?” He points to
one of the computer monitors. On the screen is an interior view of
the sphere with Potter lying in the center.

“
Feedback,” she says.

“
What?” Singleton asks.

She tries to explain. “Feedback—reverb. That
thing that happens when you put a microphone too close to a
speaker.”

“
So instead of that one-way street
between the simulator and the host—what?” Singleton shakes his
head, trying to get a grasp on where his thoughts are taking him.
He is still extremely tired. Georgia can see it all over his
face.

“
What?” Paul asks him.

A knowing smile creeps across Singleton’s face
and she knows he’s figured it out. “A closed circuit,” he
says.

She smiles.

Singleton continues, “His mind leaves the host
and goes out in search of the test subject, just like the program
is going to tell it to do. But it’s just going to come back to
himself since he
is
the subject.”

“
So,” Paul begins, moving back to
the original question posed to Georgia. “Any idea what we can
expect?”

Her smile broadens. “All those other tests left
the subject mentally handicapped. Even after the test failed,
there’s still a fraction of their old selves within them. This time
though, I’m afraid the poor General’s going to destroy
himself—complete mental overload.”

They sit in silence, each one pondering these
new speculations. After a few more moments, Paul slaps his hand
against the desk, startling the other two. He shouts excitedly,
“Well let’s get this show on the road!”

Georgia adjusts the computer mouse under her
fingertips and clicks a button on the screen before her. The screen
turns dark and two words flash repeatedly:
Program
Initiated
.

She turns to Paul, an evil glint flickering in
her eyes. “You want to do the honors?” He leans forward and glances
at the screen. The curser hovers over a button labeled with the
simple word,
Go
.

All before him is dark. It’s as if he is
spinning through space—but without the stars. Then a sliver of
light appears in the distance. Over time, it thickens, grows
wider…taller. He can’t tell if it takes seconds or hours. All sense
of time has slipped away.

Where am I?
he thinks, and his words
echo back within his mind. The pain is severe, striking him like an
ice pick to the eyes. The darkness closes around him again, then
reappears—brighter this time. Finally, the bright light dims and he
can see more clearly. Above him is a bright blue sky. Intensely
bright, like the sun reflecting off snow. He turns his head to look
to his left. He looks right. He appears to be lying on the top
level of a parking garage. About a dozen cars are scattered around
in various parking spaces.

There’s something in his hand.

He lifts it. It’s a gun—a gun that looks eerily
similar to the ones he had developed for the program...

“
No,” he says aloud and it’s as if
that one word is amplified ten-fold. It echoes around him and slams
into his ears. His eyes flood with tears. Echoes usually diminish
over time as the sound travels further away and bounces back from
greater distances. But not this. His single, spoken word gets
louder and louder with each reverberation. It pounds into his ears
and pierces his consciousness—pounding his brain like a hammer. He
puts a hand to his eyes and presses. The pressure doesn’t
help.

He removes his fingers and blinks against the
pain. Movement to his left catches his eye. There’s a man
there—then two men. Both are heavily armed—guns trained on
him.

There’s no doubting where he is now. He’s in
the simulator—the game. He turns to the right. Four more men are
there. He rises from the ground, gun hanging loose by his side. He
looks to the sky, knowing that somewhere beyond the illusion is a
camera.

He shouts, “Singleton!”

Again, the pain floods his mind. He presses his
palm to his forehead. The sound of gunfire erupts around him. He
can feel a sudden flare of pain in his left thigh. Another gunshot
and another blossom of pain in his right shoulder. He screams and
the sound of his voice builds and builds within himself. More
gunshots—more wounds—more pain. He falls to his knees. Twenty men
surround him now. Each one opens fire—the bullets cutting flaming
caves through his body and still, the echoing reverberations crush
against his skull.

He falls to the ground, whimpering like a sick
puppy.

Then finally—silence.

Singleton and Georgia drive away, leaving Paul
on the corner of Fifth and Vine. His apartment is only a few blocks
away and he enjoys the quiet stroll home. He’ll probably never see
the two of them ever again—and that’s fine by him. He and Rob want
to put this chapter of their lives behind him.

Speaking of Rob, Paul thinks, you sure have
been quiet these last few days.

In fact, the last time Paul remembers
hearing
Rob was back at General Potter’s research
facility—when Paul turned over control of his body to Rob so Rob
could have the satisfaction of lighting the first match—of watching
first-hand as the facility burned to the ground.

I’m still here, Buddy.

Are you okay?

I’m okay…I’m just tired.

So am I.

Paul walks a few hundred paces, then thinks,
I guess the game’s over, huh
?

His footsteps are near silent. Behind him, the
moon emerges from hiding behind a silver-lined cloud. Its light
throws his shadow onto the sidewalk in front of him.

He senses Rob’s mental nod of
ascension.

Yes, Rob thinks. The game’s over.

I developed a passion for reading at an early
age, but at one point, I had to start transferring the story lines
and plot ideas in my own head down onto the written page. For many
years, I only wrote for myself, never really believing that someone
else might enjoy the stories I have to tell. So here I am, many
years later, sharing my imagination with others and wandering why I
never started this earlier in life. There’s such a release, a
feeling of completeness when I get to the end of a
story.

Thank you so much for spending these last few
hours with me and
The Game
. In closing, I have a request.
Independent, self-published authors rely on word of mouth and an
honest review of their work in order to sell their stories. So, if
you enjoyed
The Game
, won’t you please take a moment to
leave me a review at your favorite online retailer? As a token of
my gratitude, please enjoy an excerpt from my upcoming full-length
novel,
The Gravedigger
.

-Christopher J. Thomasson

“
You ready, Gringo?”

Steven can’t help but smile—even his parents
have taken to calling him by his nickname and he can’t figure out
how it happened. Maybe they heard his friend Eduardo calling him
Gringo. Or maybe they do it knowing how much he misses his
friend—their way of reminding him they care how he feels. Whatever
the reasons, he appreciates their efforts.

He throws a couple of pairs of wool socks into
his backpack and calls out, “Almost, dad.”

His dad appears in the doorway. His white skin
is blatant contrast to the mop of ginger hair sticking up in all
directions on his head.

“
Come on, dad. Aren’t you going to
brush your hair?”

Bill rolls his eyes upward, a comedic attempt
to look at his hair through his head. “What's wrong with my
hair?”

“
Dad!”

“
Dude,” he says, trying to give his
best impression of a surfer. “That's what a hat is for.”

At the mention of the word
hat
, Steven
remembers that he hadn’t packed his own hat. He rummages through a
pile of clothes on the far side of his bed and finds it hidden
underneath.

“
You ready now?”

Rolling his eyes, “Yes,
dad
. I'm ready
now.” He approaches his dad, spins him around, and then forces him
down the hallway toward the kitchen at the other end of the house.
His mom stands in the kitchen, leaning against one of the counters.
She has a box of glazed donuts in her hands and holds them out to
Bill.

She says, “Now you
will
be back in time
for church Sunday morning?” The way she says it is more of an order
than a question.

“
Yes, honey.” Bill kisses
her.

“
Did you pack plenty of
water?”

“
Yes, honey,” he says, kissing her
again.

“
What about underwear?”

"Yes, honey,” he kisses her a third
time.

“
Dad!” shouts Steven, a little too
loudly. “I thought you were ready to go?”

“
Okay, okay. Hold your horses, Son.”
He kisses her a fourth time. “Now we can go.”

They file past her, snatch donuts from the open
box, step through the utility room, and out the door that leads to
the garage. They pile into the car and, with a wave to the lady of
the house, Bill backs out into the street.

The weekend hunting trip is under
way.

It’s The Gringo’s third hunting trip and he’s
sure this time will be different.
Third time’s a charm
, his
dad had said when they started planning the weekend getaway. On his
previous trips, he had seen two doe, one during each trip.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t shoot them; his dad had not purchased
doe permits. But this time will be different— he’s sure of it. This
time they’ll see a big buck and he’ll have his first hunting trophy
in addition to all the meat. He can already taste his dad’s
homemade deer jerky.

He looks over at his dad. Their activities have
increased over the past few months and Steven knows why. He had
been so upset and distraught over Eduardo’s family moving that the
only thing his parents could think of to do was take him places all
the time in an attempt to distract him. For the most part, their
attempts at distraction worked, but then there are times like this,
when the radio is the only thing denting the silence. Neither he
nor his dad speak for a long while so Steven spends the quit with
the memories of his friend.