Countdown

I launched myself out of the garbage like somebody possessed and grabbed Rogan’s arm. There was a flight of stairs leading down. I pulled him with me, and we quickly descended into the semidarkness below.

“3...2...1...”

The door above us slammed shut with the force of a guillotine. When nothing else happened, I quickly continued down to the bottom of the stairs. A short hallway led into a white room.

Rogan met my gaze. “I don’t feel dead yet. Should we be celebrating?”

I thought about that as I tried to bring my breathing back down to a normal pace. “If we’re dead, then death wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Congratulations, Rogan and Kira, on successfully completing level two of Countdown.”

I rubbed my temples, finally allowing myself a measure of relief. “Is he going to say that every time? Because that’s going to get old really fast.”

Another camera appeared and whipped past my face. I watched my eyes narrow in the shiny surface. By no stretch of the imagination did I look happy. My dark brown hair was matted and tangled, and my long bangs were slicked against my forehead. My jaw was clenched tightly, and my dark eyes flashed with anger. I hated that digicam. Hated it more than I remembered hating anything for a very long time.

“You shouldn’t look directly at it,” Rogan advised, touching my arm with the hand that wasn’t clasped to his injured shoulder.

I shrugged away from him. “Why not?”

“You don’t want to give the Subscribers more than their money’s worth. They want you to look at them that way. It gets them off to see you suffer.” He pulled me away so that I wasn’t staring right into the lens anymore. “How did you know to ring the bell?”

I finally looked at him. “Lucky guess.”

“Yes,” a voice said. “Very lucky indeed.”

I turned to see that a door had opened and a man had entered the white room. He was tall and skinny, with short black hair and a trimmed goatee. He wore wire-framed glasses and a white doctor’s coat and he held a clipboard.

“Who are you?” I forced myself not to step backward. He was the first live person I’d seen other than Rogan since this nightmare had begun.

He stopped walking. “My name is Jonathan. I’m your liaison to Countdown.”

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead, his gaze flicked to Rogan. “You’re injured.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know that already, being our liaison and all.” Sarcasm mixed with the pain in Rogan’s voice.

“It’s worse than I thought it would be.” Jonathan let out a long sigh and shook his head. “We will have to wait a moment first.”

I looked around the room. He wasn’t moving, just staring straight ahead.

“What are we waiting for?” I asked.

Jonathan held up a finger. “One moment.”

Every muscle in my body was tense and ready to run, but instead I waited, standing silently in place. After a couple of minutes, a small door in the wall to my right opened up, and the silver ball camera left the room. The door closed behind it.

“What happened?” I said.

“Countdown is now on an official break,” Jonathan explained. “We have a little time to prep you for your next level.”

“I won’t last another level,” Rogan said.

Jonathan nodded. “I know. I’ve been monitoring your vitals.”

He left the room briefly and returned with a white box.

“Sit,” he instructed, and Rogan sat down in a white chair next to him.

I swear, everything in the entire room was white and scrubbed immaculately clean. It felt like a hospital—or, at least, the kind I’d once seen in an old movie.

Jonathan pushed away the material that covered Rogan’s wound. Then with no sound from the murderer other than a pained groan, Jonathan cleaned the wound and sprayed it with some sort of colorless substance. The skin around the cut turned a sick shade of green.

“Ah,” Jonathan breathed, peering closer. “The knife they used on you was tipped with calcine poison.”

“That would explain why I feel like my insides are melting,” Rogan grumbled. “Because they are.”

“What’s happening?” I demanded again. My fists were clenched so tightly at my sides that my fingernails dug painfully into the palms of my hands. Instead of relaxing, I let it happen. The pain helped me stay focused.

“What does it look like?” Jonathan asked, glancing up at me.

“Why are you helping him?”

“Kira,” Rogan growled. “Didn’t you hear the part about my insides melting?”

“But—”

“I can’t play this damn game if I have melting insides. Do you get that?”

“Of course I get that. But why is he helping you? Doesn’t he work for the damn game?”

“I do.” Jonathan nodded. “But that doesn’t mean I always agree with their idea of entertainment.”

With a syringe, he injected a blue-colored solution into Rogan’s shoulder. Rogan clenched his jaw. “That should be enough antidote to halt the damage and hopefully reverse it. You’re not going to feel great, but you’ll feel a lot better than you have.” He peered at the now clean wound. “The antidote will also help the wound knit rapidly. You shouldn’t require any stitches.”

“Thanks.” Rogan pulled away from Jonathan the moment he was finished.

He seemed oddly at ease with the man—as if they’d already met.

Jonathan closed the box. “Are you well, young lady?”

“Am I well?” I repeated. “No, I am not well. I want out of this game right now.”

“That’s not possible. But you’re doing fine so far. I anticipate that you will last several more levels.” He looked away.

My breath hitched. Could I fight him to escape from this place? If I had to? “I don’t belong here.”

“None of us belong here, Kira,” he said wearily. “Sometimes we need to do the best with what we’re given.”