6
Two hours later, they still had nothing.
They’d tried everything, pooling their experience from years of gaming and programming and hacking and other illicit doings. But nothing worked. It wasn’t that the firewalls and shields protecting
Devils of Destruction
were impenetrable; they were just elusive. Almost like they didn’t exist—and if you couldn’t find a wall, you couldn’t climb it. After searching and searching, they all agreed it’d be useless to even keep trying. Michael had never come across such a thing before.
“This is weird,” Michael said, looking out at the endless sea. The sky was dark with clouds. “I almost wonder if the game’s even real. Who knows—maybe if we had been adults, the lady would’ve had some other excuse to keep us out. It doesn’t add up, does it?”
Sarah was staring at her shoes, concentrating hard on something. “Maybe the game is really, really awesome and super popular with older people, and they don’t want us knowing about it or getting in on the action. It could use old security technology we don’t even know about. Either way, what are we going to do? I don’t think we can try the same trick we used at the Black and Blue.”
“If we did,” Bryson said, “that old lady would probably sit on us until we had to Lift out or suffocate.”
Michael stood up. Determination raged like an inferno inside him. He was getting into that game, no matter what.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re doing this the old-fashioned way.”
“We are?” Bryson asked, surprised.
“Yes, we are. I’m going back inside.” Michael stomped off, not knowing where his sudden bravery had come from and not caring. His friends hurried to catch up.
7
Michael didn’t really have a plan. And he knew there’d be more waiting for them than that gum-smacking girl and the lady he thought of as Stonewall. The game people had to have other ways to keep them out. But Michael was ready to get past them all. He was fired up and ready for a fight.
Bryson grabbed his shoulder and spun him around just as they reached the shabby door.
“What?” Michael asked. “If you try to stop me, I might chicken out.”
“Call me crazy, but shouldn’t we talk this through a little? I don’t know, come up with a plan, maybe?”
Michael knew he should calm down, but he didn’t want to. “Think of all the crap you’ve dragged me into over the years. It’s my turn now. Just follow my lead. It can’t be too bad in there—they know people won’t just try to break in. The visual evidence would be too strong, and they’d end up in jail. But we’re desperate enough to try, so let’s go.”
Sarah was smiling at him with her eyebrows slightly raised, as if she was impressed. “I like this side of you.”
“Yeah, I know. Come on.” He turned away from them and opened the door.
8
As soon as they entered, Michael could tell that the huge lady behind the ticket counter knew they were going to start trouble.
She shook her finger at them. “No, no, no you don’t. I can see it in your eyes, boy. I already told you—there’s no way I’m letting you game today. Just turn your butts around and scoot on back out the door.”
Michael hadn’t stopped walking, hadn’t slowed a bit. He stayed on course for the back of the room, with Bryson and Sarah right behind him. When he reached the concession stand he noticed that the black-haired girl had momentarily stopped chewing her gum. She just stood there staring at them with a shocked look on her face as they passed by.
“Why’d they let you work in a place like this, anyway?” Michael asked her, but she didn’t answer.
Stonewall was moving out from behind her counter, flabby flesh swaying on her arm as she waved at them to stop. “Stop right there, mister. Stop. Right. There.” She took a path to cut them off, but they were walking too fast for her.
Michael didn’t know the layout of the place, but from what he could tell, aside from where they came in, there was only one exit from the lobby, which had to be the entrance to
Devils of Destruction
. It was a shadowy hallway that branched off the back right corner of the room. And that was where he headed.
Suddenly a booming voice filled the air. A deep voice with a thick Southern accent. “How’d you like your pretty faces filled with holes?”
Michael stopped in his tracks, then turned around just as he heard two heavy metallic clicks—the sound of a shotgun being cocked. When he saw the source of the voice, his breath caught in his throat like the air had turned into balls of cotton. That same girl who’d been smacking her gum and acting like she didn’t care one whit about the world was standing on top of the concession stand holding two sawed-off shotguns, their barrels pointed at Michael and his friends.
“The name’s Ryker,” the girl said. “And I ain’t letting punks like you three steal entry on my watch. Ain’t, can’t, won’t. Now get your runty little butts out of here before I start shooting.”
Michael had frozen in place, eyes glued to the strange person with the guns named Ryker.
“Y’all think I’m just some clown at a rodeo?” Ryker asked, holding her weapons up a little higher. “It’ll be some awful mess to clean you all up, but y’all better believe I’ll do it. I’ll lose every last penny of my pay this month if you get in. Now get lost!”
At some point during her rant, Michael decided that he wasn’t leaving. If he had to go through the horror of being shot, so be it. He’d wake up in his Coffin and come marching right back. This girl wasn’t going to kick him out without a fight.
“Fine,” he called. “We’ll just mosey right on out the door.”
Holding his hands up, he slowly made his way toward her. He knew he’d only get one chance at this, and he hoped his friends didn’t end up being the ones who got shot.
“Careful, there,” Ryker said. “Make one more move and you’ll be hurting good before Lifting back to the Wake. How’s that sound?”
Michael took another slow step toward the girl. She was only a few feet away now. “Look, I swear we didn’t mean any harm. We just have some questions.”
“I said
careful
!” She aimed both shotguns at his face. It should have relieved him that Bryson and Sarah were no longer in immediate danger, but he found himself wishing she’d go right ahead and aim the stupid things back at them.
Another step. Then another. Hands up, his eyes wide and innocent, steady pace with no sudden movements. So close now.
“Stop!” Ryker screamed.
Michael froze. “Okay. Okay.” He put his hands down and pretended he was going to turn away and head for the door again. “I’m sorry we—”
He spun and leaped into the air, swinging his arms up as he did. He swatted at the barrels of the two guns, tipping them toward the ceiling just as the girl pulled the triggers. Twin booms thundered in the air. Pellets riddled the ceiling and walls, breaking glass and splintering wood. Michael slammed into Ryker, and both of them tumbled over the edge of the concession stand and crashed to the floor. She struggled to get free, but he was on top of her and he was bigger. He wrestled the two guns out of her hands and pointed one of them at her face.
“Tables… are turned,” he said through heavy breaths. “Don’t tempt me.”
Ryker squirmed beneath him but with less effort than before. “Such a brute, pointing that thing at a girl’s face. Your daddy beat up your momma, too?”
“Oh, shut up. You were the one threatening to kill us.” He lightly tapped the tip of the gun on her nose, then got up.
“Ow!” she yelled. Michael had never seen such a look of ferocity on a girl’s face before.
“That was dangerous,” Sarah said dryly. He looked over to see her and Bryson exactly where he’d left them.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Michael realized something then. “Hey, where’d that lady go?”
Bryson pointed over at the ticket stand. “She ran over there and disappeared under the counter.”
Michael knew immediately that something was wrong. He climbed over the concession stand and joined his friends, handing one of the shotguns to Bryson. “Let’s get out of here.”
That was when Stonewall popped up from behind the counter, huge arms folded across her chest, just like the first time they’d seen her. “You picked the wrong day to mess with me. Did you really think I’d let you waltz in here and play a game you’re restricted from? Huh? Did you?”
A hissing sound suddenly came from all directions at once. Michael spun in a circle to find its source, and it took him a moment to realize that several holes had appeared along the walls and in the ceiling. Before he could warn his friends, thick lengths of black rope were shooting out, slithering through the air like flying snakes.
He turned to move, but the ropes were everywhere. A piece wound around his ankle, squeezing tightly, as if it was alive.
As he bent over to yank it off, the rope jerked him off his feet and flung him into the air.
9
Michael’s stomach lurched as his body twisted, the rope whipping him back and forth like a dog does its prey. And just like a dog’s prey, he was disoriented. But somehow he’d held on to the gun. As he flew around the room, he focused all his energy into trying to get it cocked. Lights flashed and the colors of the lobby spun until they merged into one. His head began to ache, as if another episode was coming on.
Michael gripped the shotgun with both hands, strained to double over, and aimed, making sure his foot wasn’t in the way. Then he fired.
The gun recoiled and flipped him backward. The floor came into view and kept coming, rushing up until he slammed into it face-first. Through the pain, he could feel the rope around his leg break free—he’d hit his target.
Its partners closed in, coiling and twisting in the air. There were dozens of them, and Michael scanned the room to see what had happened to his friends. Bryson was pinned to a wall, one black cable around his thigh and another one clasping his arm as he struggled to break free. Sarah had avoided outright capture, but she had the loose end of one of the cords in her hands and was trying to keep it from her face, as if it was a cobra straining to strike.
A rope found Michael, snaked up his leg, and began to twist around his knee. He grabbed it and yanked, jumping over it as he did. Then he batted another one coming for his head. Sarah lost her battle—the black cord had wrapped around her neck and was now dragging her to the wall where Bryson stood, his eyes closed and no longer struggling. Terrified that Bryson had been hurt, Michael started in that direction but was cut short by ropes attacking from both sides. He dove to the ground and rolled, kicking out to fling the cables away.
A draining, hopeless feeling tried to suck the life from him. How in the world could they get out of this? He only had one more shell in his shotgun; Bryson’s had slid clear across the room and landed at the foot of the ticket counter, behind which Stonewall stood like a statue, silently watching. Something about her made Michael do a double take—she
was
like stone, unnaturally still. Her eyes were glazed over and focused on some point in the distance. He’d never seen anything like it.
A cord tightened around Michael’s waist, pulling him back to the fight. Too late he tried to grab it and wrench it from his body; it had a solid hold. The cable jerked him across the floor, and he struggled to free himself as he slid toward his friends, both of whom were now cinched up against the wall with several more ropes than before. The gun started to slip out of Michael’s grasp, but he held on, knowing that last shell was his only chance.
Another rope began to wrap around his left ankle; he kicked it away. One came in from the right, straight at the gun, but he knocked it down with the gun’s barrel, almost pulling the trigger on reflex. Both hands free for a moment, he gripped the weapon tightly and aimed it two feet down the length of cable that had him by the waist. The blast sent him slamming into the floor again, dazing him for an instant. But he was able to tear loose from the now-limp coil. He rolled, dropping the gun, as it was now useless, and scrambled to his feet, slapping ropes away. That was when it hit him: he suddenly knew what the old lady was doing. Why she was so still and focused.
She was controlling the ropes.
10
He’d only have one chance at this.
Stonewall was thirty feet away, behind the ticket counter. In front of it, Bryson’s gun lay there for the taking. Between it and Michael, cords of black rope flew through the air like living vines, forming a spiderweb of traps. He sprinted forward.
They all attacked him at once, swarming in from every direction. He flung his arms wildly, jumped, and twisted, exploding with adrenaline. A cord tripped him up, sent him crashing to his stomach. Two ropes immediately snaked around his torso and he spun, grabbing them and pulling them off. He kicked and flailed, swatted and punched. Somehow he got back onto his feet and moved forward again, now several feet closer to his target. The ropes came again.
He pushed ahead, acting on instinct. He must’ve looked ridiculous, like a cracked-up dancer. He clambered toward the gun, getting closer and closer. A rope found his arm and cinched tight before he could do anything. It flung him into the air as he gripped it with his other hand and ripped his arm loose from its hold. Luckily, it had been pulling him in the right direction, and he slammed into the floor and slid forward until his head smacked the bottom of the ticket counter. The gun was right in front of his face.
He grabbed it, held it tight with both hands. Before he could get up, the ropes flew in, going for his legs and waist and chest, wrapping tightly around him. As he was fighting off those attempting to wind around his arms, the other ropes lifted him into the air.
He shot up and Stonewall came into view, her features still frozen. Michael only had an instant—the black cords were converging on his arms, trying to take the gun away. He aimed for her chest. But everything stopped before he could pull the trigger.