Robison Wells - Variant

The slope was getting steeper, and we moved more slowly and deliberately now. Lily would stop at cover—bushes or trees or rocks—and then, when she felt safe, she’d run for the next. Mason and I followed behind.

At a large rock outcropping, she decided to leave the ribbon and head into the interior of the field. We had to be close to the bunkers by now. It wouldn’t be long before we ran into trouble.

Lily moved to a cluster of junipers and paused for what seemed like ten minutes, though it couldn’t have been nearly that long. Finally, she began to move, creeping up the slope. I watched, giving her some space before I dared to follow. I didn’t have any camouflage, and couldn’t go slowly like she did. If I left the cover of my rock, I’d be spotted in an instant.

A staccato of shots sounded behind me, and I ducked and spun, turning my gun toward the noise. Someone was shooting at Mason, but I couldn’t see him or the shooter.

I peered over the rock toward Lily, but she was nowhere to be seen.

The shooting stopped. Mason hadn’t called for a medic, which was a good sign.

My options were limited. Most of the slope was thick with brush, and anybody could be hiding inside it. I didn’t know where Mason was, so I couldn’t very well move to help him.

Suddenly there was a flurry of shots, paint splattering all over in the trees and bushes. Mason yelled out “hit!” and stood, paint splattered across his mask.

Jane couldn’t heal a head hit. I took a deep breath, watching as he held his gun up and walked toward the ribbon and off the field. I didn’t have anyone behind me anymore and someone was hidden in the brush.

Looking back toward the front, I couldn’t see Lily at all.

I waited for five minutes, hoping to hear shots as Lily looped back and killed Mason’s attacker, but it never happened.

The only sign of life was a Society ref, about forty yards away. I thought about making a break for the wall, but knew I couldn’t. The refs all had whistles, and my tan sweats stood out like a white light in this dim forest.

If I couldn’t escape, I might as well play the game. I didn’t want two days without food.

Clutching my gun, I jumped to my feet and ran to the cluster of junipers where Lily had been. I skidded to a stop behind a gnarled trunk and readied for attack. But there was no sound.

I whispered her name. With her ghillie suit so convincing, she could have been ten feet away from me. No answer.

Crap.

I waited another few minutes, hoping to see some movement or hear a sound, but there was nothing.

I still hadn’t fired a shot.

Hoping that I wasn’t going to screw up Lily’s tactics—I assumed she was still alive since I hadn’t heard her call for the medic—I lifted into a crouch and prepared to advance. No one shot at me.

I moved slowly, hunched down, ready to shoot if necessary. My shoes were loud in the rocky dirt, even as I tried to step around dry twigs and brittle grass. I went up the slope where I’d last seen Lily. There were no signs of her—no footprints, no fresh paint marks.

There were more trees here, shorter but denser. I moved from trunk to trunk, watching anxiously. It had been a long time since I’d heard or seen anything, and I began to wonder whether the game was over and I’d missed the bullhorn.

After a few minutes, the first bunker came into view. I dropped to the ground. There was no good cover, so I lay flat on my stomach, my gun aimed at the wooden fort. The front surface was splattered with a dozen different colors of paint, though I didn’t know whether that was from this game or a previous one.

Where is Lily?

I moved back to a crouch and headed for the nearest cover, a large stump. No one fired.

Screw it.

I jumped from the stump and ran toward the bunker, stopping at its base. I took a breath and then leapt up, pointing my gun inside.

It was empty.

I could see through it and out the back door. Behind it was a clearing, and the back of another bunker. I hunched over again, and moved around the side, trying to be quiet and failing miserably.

The clearing was surrounded by five bunkers positioned in a circle, all facing out. Rosa sat cross-legged in the middle, about forty feet away from me, looking bored.

This must be a trap.

I watched the other four bunkers for movement, but didn’t see any. Rosa hadn’t seen me.

If I remembered the rules right, I only had to touch her. I just had to get to her before I got shot.

If she hadn’t seen me, then maybe no one else had either. If I made a run for it, they’d have to take a few seconds to react. Even if this was a trap, I had to have a few seconds.

How fast can I run forty feet?

I set the gun down in the dirt. I wasn’t going to need it. Either I got to her and won, or I didn’t get to her and I was dead.

I took one last look for Lily. She wasn’t anywhere.

I was on my feet before I realized it, running at full speed toward Rosa. I couldn’t see her eyes through the glare on her mask, but as I neared, she shielded her body with her arms.

Gunfire erupted from everywhere and I felt the impact of dozens of balls hitting me in the chest, arms, and head. I tried to stop running and tripped into the dirt.

“Nice one, Fisher,” said a voice I recognized. “Did you really think we didn’t hear you ten minutes ago?”

I rolled over and saw Oakland standing at the door to one of the bunkers, his gun still trained on me. There were people in two other doors, and one in a ghillie suit in the tall grasses at the edge of the clearing. I’d never seen any of them.

Clumsily, I stumbled to my feet, raised my hands over my head, and called out “hit.”

Another shot slapped the back of my head, and the wet trickling paint felt like blood. I spun to see Mouse.

“Hit!” I shouted again.

Another ball snapped into my back, just below my shoulder blade, and I turned back to face Oakland. Where was the ref?

“Think you’re pretty awesome?” Oakland shouted, and fired five more shots. They would have hit me in the groin if I hadn’t moved an instant before. I was glad that he couldn’t see my face, because I was having trouble hiding how much it hurt.

An instant later a Society ref appeared in the clearing, blew her whistle, and looked me up and down.

“Looks like overkill,” she said, frowning at the mass of paint spots on my body. “Did they shoot you after you called ‘hit’?”

I glanced back at Oakland. Maybe I could get him to lay off a bit. “No.”

The ref looked suspiciously at the Havoc team, and then back at me. “Head off the field.” She blew her whistle to resume play.

There was the loud hiss of a gun behind me—two sharp pops—and then Lily’s voice. “We win.”

I turned to see her hand on Rosa’s arm.

Mouse’s mask was dripping with paint, and Oakland had been shot in the neck.

Hey, Benson,” Jane shouted, catching up with us and bumping me with her shoulder. The gangs were slowly forming back together as the players trickled out of the forest.

“Thanks for healing me.”

“No problem,” she said, stepping back and taking a good look at my tan sweats that were now polka-dotted with red and blue paint. She grinned. “I go to all that trouble and look what you do.”

I tried not to smile. “I was being heroic.”

Jane glanced over at Lily and Mason.

“Don’t look at me,” Mason said, holding up his hands. “I wasn’t there.”

Lily, still looking ahead at the forest floor, smiled. “It was definitely something.”

Jane laughed and bumped me again. “I told you this place was fun.”

“Yeah.” I glanced over at Lily. I wondered whether she’d been playing for fun, too. The way she acted on the field, I’d have guessed it was for survival.