Micki nods. “Riiiiight. Unless the virgin doesn’t vote and causes us to lose out on our prizes. Then, hell yeah, we’ll do something to her.”
Ian shakes his head in disgust. “If anybody tries to mess with her, they’ll have to deal with me.”
Micki flutters her fingers. “Oooo, tough guy. Think that’ll get you Ian Virgin Vee’s pants?”
Ty winks at me. “I’ll give the cutie a break by voting for her hero, Ian.” He raises one of the bottles and finishes it off.
The room is silent except for the ringing in my ears.
Then Guy’s voice comes over the speakers, even though the screen remains dark. “What about you, Samuel? Daniella? Ian? Vee?”
Daniella puckers her mouth and twists it side to side. “Is it true you’re a virgin, Vee?”
I glare at her.
She shrugs. “Sorry ‘bout that. Anyway, I’ll be nice and vote for Ian too.”
Samuel examines his hands. “Sorry, Vee. I’m going to vote for you. Just to make it a simple majority.”
I give him a thanks a lot, asshole glower. He’s going along with the herd for safety reasons, and I’m less of a threat than Ian. Of course, that’s the best strategy for someone playing alone. But still.
Ian votes for Ty and I vote for Micki, as if it matters.
We settle into fidgety waiting. The other players return to the table and take their seats too, even though the music shifts into some vanilla pop crap they play in the all-ages dance clubs. We’re long past dancing.
Ian’s lips are near my ear. “They’re just trying to psyche us out. You’ll see.”
I whisper back, “If NERVE sics these idiots on me, I’m out of here. We can all lose our prizes.”
He kisses my cheek. “Fair enough.”
Nothing happens for five long minutes. Unless you count Micki going for another beer, or the trembling taking over my legs and arms, which are covered in goose bumps. I wish NERVE would tell us the next dare and get it over with. Ian tries to soothe me with whispered encouragement, but he didn’t earn the most victim votes.
“Is there a bathroom around here?” I say to the blank panels. They have to give us bio breaks, right? But I don’t remember passing any other doors in the corridor.
Micki, whose bladder must be as large as the Puget Sound, given all the beer she’s guzzled, points at me. “Don’t even think about escaping, or I’ll mess you up good.”
Ian raises a hand. “Chill. We all want our prizes, with as little messing up as possible.”
Gayle’s disembodied voice says, “The restroom door is in the wall right behind you, Vee.”
Of course, another hole in the wall. I turn around to face where the make-out closets opened up earlier. Sure enough, in the space to the left of the closets, a spiral lights up. On wobbly legs, I make my way around the love seat, noticing how the rest of the players avert their eyes, as if I’m no longer an entity. Oh God, isn’t that the first step that people at war go through? Depersonalizing their victims?
I press the lit spiral, which causes a door to pop open. Behind it is a tiny bathroom, windowless, of course.
“If you’re not out in five minutes, we’re coming after you,” Jen says, looking to Micki for approval, which is given in the form of a noisy kiss.
I close myself into the room, grateful when a vent automatically turns on to cover any embarrassing sounds. The door doesn’t have a lock, but it’s the most privacy I’ve had in hours. I sit on the toilet and put my head in my hands for the millionth time tonight. Now I’m the “victim.” What does that even mean? Will they push me around like the Purity Promisers did? Or scratch my eyes out the way the hookers threatened to? Can they make me feel as worthless and guilty as Syd and Tommy did? As much as I try to resist, I begin to cry.
After a minute, I clench my fists. How stupid. The last thing I need is for Micki to barge into the bathroom and catch me crying on the toilet. Would the cameras reach in here? Oh hell, my insides cramp with the sickening realization that there could be cameras in here too. I examine the ceiling and don’t see any, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t embedded in the walls around me. Why didn’t I think about that before I used the toilet, dammit? How much has the audience seen? The audience who didn’t bother saving me from that dark room with the fumes.
Keeping my skirt down, I pull up my underwear, and then flush the toilet and wash my hands. In the mirror, bloodshot eyes ringed in smeared makeup stare back. So much for freshening up earlier. I splash cold water on my face. It helps with the red in my eyes, but removes the last of my mascara, making me resemble the middle schooler Ian teased me about looking like earlier. I could grab my new cosmetics bag from the love seat to repair the damage, maybe create a new character for myself, but that’s probably what NERVE wants me to do, so forget it.
There’s a knock on the door. “Hurry up, I gotta go too,” Daniella says in her high-pitched whine.
“Keep your thong on. I’ll be out in a minute.” My own voice is rough, but I feel my strength returning. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and narrow my eyes at her as I exit. I give the same glare to the others, except for Ian, as I plunk into my seat, silently cursing it out when it bounces under me.
“Someone’s been crying.” Micki laughs.
“Shut up,” I say. “I’m tired.”
She runs a hand along the tips of Jen’s Mohawk. “Yeah, guess it’s past your bedtime.”
Ian whispers, “The more you respond, the more she’ll harass you. Focus on me. We’re going to walk out of here as winners. Imagine how we’ll celebrate.”
As I listen to him, I stare through the table at the crimson carpet. Its pattern subtly curls, leading to a point under the table’s center. The swirls and whirls draw my eyes around and around.
My attention is broken when the door behind us clicks open.
Daniella, freshly iced with thick lipstick that would give ancient prostitutes some serious competition, exits the bathroom and takes her seat. Waves of musky perfume fill the room, causing the spot between my eyes to ache. NERVE couldn’t have planned a more effective attack on our noses.
I resume my inspection of the carpet. Something about it bugs me. At the center point under the table, I detect what appear to be concentric rings of darker spots. I lean forward to examine them, gently resting my arms on the table so it doesn’t swing.
The panel beeps and Guy says, “You guys are the last grand prize players left now. All Watcher eyes are on this room!”
Jen and Micki wave to the cameras. I feel like I need to use the bathroom again. Why aren’t the emcees showing their faces anymore? It’s creepy having their voices come at us in surround sound without any visuals.
Gayle says in a commanding tone, “Daniella, open the green cabinet.”
Daniella bounces up, clapping her hands. “More goodies!”
Great, what now? Whiskey or arsenic? I don’t want to know. With a frown, I focus my attention downward, toward those spots on the carpet. They’re actually more like gaps, no, holes. Holes? With a punch to my gut I realize what they are. A drain. What the hell kind of VIP lounge needs a drain in the middle of rubbery red carpet that I’ll bet is water resistant. I jerk my head up.
Daniella peeks into the cabinet, gasps, and slams the door back shut. With no apparent thought to her front teeth, she gnaws at her waxy lower lip
Ty slaps the table. “Enough with the drama. What is it?”
She gives him a lipstick-stained smile as she opens the cabinet with shaky hands, this time swinging the door open wide.
The rest of us catch our breaths too.
Hanging against the back of the cabinet are seven handguns.
sixteen
Two seconds later I’m at the door.
But Micki is just as fast, pushing past Daniella and Ty. “You’re not going anywhere, bitch!” She grabs me by my elbow, wrenching it backward.
Screaming, I strain toward the doorknob. “I’m not sticking around while a
bunch of drunk monkeys play with guns.”
Ian’s next to us, trying to pry Micki away from me. “Let her go.”
Her fingernails dig through my jacket into my arms. “This little chickenshit princess isn’t costing us our prizes.”
Jen and Ty join the fray, yanking Ian away from me and the door. He thrashes while I struggle to get away. But Micki’s grasp is too tight. She spins me toward the floor, throwing me onto it and then herself on top of me. My spine screams under her weight.
Safety pins poke my cheek when she presses her face next to mine and spews hot, beery air into my ear. “Bet a little bitch like you would love it doggy style.”
I wriggle beneath her, but can’t break free. She jams my face into the carpet, which smells as rubbery as it looks and reinforces my suspicion that it was chosen for its washability. I shudder to imagine what fluids it’s come in contact with.
The music morphs into metal rock, a deep bass pounding in time to my heart. With a grunt, I get an elbow free long enough to jab Micki’s ribs. She yanks my hair in retaliation, bringing tears to my eyes but also raising my head so I get a quick scan of the room. Samuel’s still seated at the table. Daniella huddles in a corner with her arms wrapped around herself, eyes bugging at the brawl around her.
To my left, Ian, Ty, and Jen dart and jab. The minute Ty puts down his beer and starts wrestling for real with Ian, we’ll be done for. Ian must realize that too, because in a move straight from a Tarantino film, he leans against a wall and kicks into the air at Ty’s chest, sending him backward into Jen, and both of them onto the floor. Yes! At least one of us can escape and end this horrible game.
Ian runs to the door and yanks at the knob. And then yanks it again. “What the hell?”
Micki’s weight on me suddenly slackens, but my chest feels heavy as I watch Ian tug at the door. Something isn’t right. By the time I get to my knees, Micki’s thrown herself on Ian’s back and is pulling his hair. He whips around hard enough to throw her off balance, launching a domino effect as she falls against me and I fall against Ty and Jen, who’ve just gotten up from their last tumble. We all crumple to the ground screaming obscenities. Somehow I end up on top of the pile like a ragdoll atop Rottweilers. I roll off and spring toward Ian.
His biceps bulge as he tries the door again and again. But it doesn’t budge.
He jumps, swiping the air beneath the nearest camera. “You bastards locked us in! That’s kidnapping.”
Micki shoves herself between Ian and the door and tries the doorknob too. She laughs when it doesn’t open. Who the hell laughs about being kidnapped?
The music transforms into an ice-cream truck melody, and then is drowned out by the beep, beep, beep of the panel, where a message rolls by. THE DOOR MUST BE JAMMED. WE’LL SEND A HANDYMAN OVER AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
I yell at the screen, “You can’t do this! We’ll sue!”
WHO, EXACTLY, DO YOU PLAN TO PROSECUTE?
I point to Micki. “I can start with this bitch.”
GOOD LUCK. SEEMS LIKE AN OPEN-AND-SHUT CASE OF SHE SAYS, SHE SAYS.
Does the audience see the messages from NERVE? Or just some edited version that protects the game administrators’ butts? Maybe that’s why we don’t see the emcees anymore now that we’re in handgun territory. The thought makes my blood rush downward.
I duck behind Ian, reach into my pocket for my phone, and punch 911. Micki’s face goes wolf-like, and she lashes out at me, but Ian holds her back. It doesn’t matter, though. The call is blocked. My grunt of disgust draws laughs from Micki and Ty.
I can’t believe this. “Are you guys psychopaths? We’re locked in here with guns. Doesn’t that bug anyone but Ian and me?”
Samuel’s huddled in his love seat. “They’ve probably removed the firing pins or loaded them with blanks.”
It’s all I can do not to jump on him. “You really want to bet on that?”
Ty grunts, “Chill out. No one’s doing any shooting. It’s just a game.”
Daniella’s got a hand to her mouth like she’s trying not to cry, but she doesn’t say anything. Jen and Micki nibble each other’s lips and giggle. Do they know something I don’t?
I try my phone again. Maybe I can delete the NERVE app and regain access, but it demands a password. Holding the phone up to the camera, I shout, “Get your program off of here.”
Of course, there’s no reply. I rub the tops of my arms, trying to soothe the panic that threatens to take over. The sleeve of my jacket has been torn loose, revealing deep scratches on my right shoulder.
I holler, “I need to see a doctor. Your pit bull got off leash.”
Micki has a hand to her forehead. “You deserved worse.”
FIRST AID SUPPLIES ARE IN THE YELLOW CABINET. OUR VIRTUAL DOC THINKS YOU ALL LOOK FINE. BUT WE’LL HAVE YOU CHECKED OUT WHEN THE HANDYMAN OPENS THE DOOR.
The cabinet. I run toward it, not caring about first aid supplies, but wanting to block the others from the guns. I note that someone, probably Daniella, closed the green door they’re behind.
Ty beats me to it, however, and hovers over me. “Oh no you don’t.”
I try to dart around him, but he’s too large. “I need a bandage. And probably a rabies shot.”
Ian’s next to me. “C’mon, dude, we’re all stuck in here. Let her get what she needs.”
Ty holds an arm out. “I’ll get it for her. Just in case some dumb-ass thinks they can grab a gun and shoot the lock off the door.” He stares at me. “It wouldn’t work anyway. They tested it on TV.”
Great. That’s probably the one piece of scientific data in his pea brain.
My arm aches. Maybe I really do need a rabies shot, or at least distemper. “Okay, fine. I’m not going for a gun. Just give me something for my arm, okay? Then again, maybe you should let me bleed until I need medical attention and NERVE has to cancel the game.” I bet NERVE will do no such thing.
Ty summons his gang for backup. We stand there face-to-face, twitching, while he opens the yellow drawer and rummages through it. He hands me a couple bandages and a few other supplies.
Back in our seat, Ian wipes my scratches with antiseptic pads before applying the bandages. Across the table, Jen holds an ice pack to Micki’s head. Did I hurt her? Good.
Ty sits with his arms crossed, his glare daring us to make a move toward the cabinet. Daniella purrs and runs a hand through his hair, her bracelets jangling like jail keys. To Ian’s and my left, Samuel remains silent, eyeing us over his glasses. We’re all seated, like at the Last Supper, only no food and no saints.
The music shifts to elevator rock. Who’s choosing the soundtrack? Satan?
OKAY PLAYERS, TIME TO EARN YOUR KEEP.
Again, our commands come only via text on the panels. As plastic as I found Guy and Gayle to be, without them, the room feels more isolated.
TY, PLACE THE GUNS ON THE TABLE, ONE IN FRONT OF EACH PLAYER.
My stomach goes to my feet. Ty stares at the panel with a wrinkled forehead, like maybe he can’t read. Or maybe he’s grown a conscience.
YOU’LL EARN A HUNDRED-DOLLAR BONUS FOR YOUR EFFORT.
With a broad smile, he gets up. I hold my breath, praying that, like a magic trick, the weapons in the cabinet will have been replaced with doves. But as soon as he opens the door, it’s clear that hasn’t happened. Whatever bad luck’s been biting my bony butt all night is here to stay.
I call out, “Don’t do it, Ty. This is totally Lord of the Flies. NERVE wants to turn us into savages. Show them that you’re your own man.”
Ty addresses Ian. “Can’t you control your woman, bro?”
Ian’s face stiffens. “She’s right. Don’t do it, Ty.”
“Pussy.” He removes a gun and strokes it. “SIG Sauer P226. Sweet. A Navy SEAL’s best buddy.”
Keeping the gun at his side, he takes out a second one and places it in front of Daniella. The next two guns go to Jen and Micki, who leans in to examine hers with a low whistle. I flinch when she glances
my way. Ty places guns in front of Samuel, then me, and finally Ian. He’s laid mine and Ian’s so that the barrels face us.
I cross my arms and start chanting loudly, “Whoever’s watching, call 911. Whoever’s watching, call 911.” What are they going to do, threaten me with another consequence? Upgrade to machine guns?
I keep repeating the request. Even if NERVE blocked out my pleas when I was in the other room, they can’t keep censoring me, especially now that all the other grand prize rounds are over. There’d be no show. Eventually, they’ll either have to let us go or let the Watchers see us. Either way, the game is over. Screw fashion school.
TIME TO SHUT IT, VEE.
“Time to let me quit. I quit. I quit. I quit.” I alternate this with pleas to the audience to call 911. Ian joins me in the chant.
LOOK AT YOUR PHONES.
I interrupt my chant to say, “There’s no other prize you can offer. Fashion school and an internship aren’t worth this. Nothing is.”
Ty snarls. “Well, taking a trip to Ireland with my dad before he gets too sick is plenty worth it. So suck it up.”
LOOK AT YOUR PHONE. YOUR PARENTS WOULD APPRECIATE IT.
What, they’re bringing my parents into it again? I check my phone, which contains a long message. I read. It appears to be notes from my sessions with the shrink, stuff she was typing into her damn computer while I blabbed away. Details like what type of music was playing in my car that night. It’s amazing how much info is in her notes. I thought I’d been so smart, trying to get her attention off of the garage incident by feeding her crap about how I felt invisible around Sydney, even going into that time when I was fooling around with Jason Walker and he called me her name by mistake. There’s more humiliating material following that story. God, did I tell the shrink everything? Fat lot of good all those privacy forms I signed did. And to make things worse, there’s a second message with details from a therapy session the shrink had with my parents, something about them not having intimate relations since—aw, no, they’d be mortified if this got out.