D. MacHale - The Quillan Games

Those words said a lot. He had no idea who I was, or why I was running from the dados. But that one brief comment from a very scared guy told me that they weren’t rooting for the dados. At least as far as this frightened guy was concerned, the dados weren’t the good guys.

Fum!

A container that was on a shelf near my head exploded. Somebody screamed. It might have been me. Everything had just gotten a little more serious. I was no longer being chased; I was being hunted. I dove through the door behind the counter, desperate to get anything in between me and those goons. I found myself behind the counter of another store. Of course I couldn’t see the sign outside, but I could guess what it said. I had just come out of a store called “Food” to enter a store called “Drink.” There were long aisles in here as well, only they were all stacked with row after row of rounded canisters of different colored liquid. As I sprinted down an aisle, I glanced quickly to see that the labels on each had the same word: blok. Blok was everywhere… on plates, on food and drink products, even on the giant screens outside. Sooner or later I needed to find out what Blok was.

But not just then.

Fum! Fum!

Two canisters of bright blue “drink” exploded next to my head, splashing me. I didn’t stop, but jammed for a door that looked as if it led back outside. Going into these stores had turned out to be a bad idea. I figured that at least outside, with so many people, there’d be less chance of them shooting at me for fear of hitting an innocent bystander. Innocent bystander? I was an innocent bystander too! What was I guilty of? Nothing! But nobody told the dados that. Nope. No bystanding for me, innocent or not. I was on the run. So I hit the door and crashed back out onto the street, knocking into a few people along the way.

“Sorry!” I shouted, but the people didn’t care. They continued on their way, heads down, as if nothing had happened. All I could do was keep on moving and try to find a place to hide. I crossed over a street, running low, hoping that they wouldn’t see me. It slowed me down, but it wasn’t like I could break into a full-on sprint anyway. It was way too crowded for that.

I reached the next intersection and saw something that gave me hope. Walking ahead of me was the older, gray-haired guy who had chewed out that woman for crashing the motorbike into the dados. He was walking his scoot along the sidewalk. I had to trust my instinct. I felt like there was something going on with that guy. If I was right, and he had helped that other guy escape from the dados, I had to hope he would do the same for me.

I looked back to see that the dados had run out of the store and were scanning the crowded sidewalk. I had a short window. I ran forward until I got ahead of the guy. He was walking with his head down, just like everybody else. I ran past him, then turned around, and walked backward.

“Hey,” I said breathlessly. “I need help.”

The guy looked up quickly. I saw the surprise in his eyes. I didn’t know if it was because a crazy guy had just jumped out of nowhere asking him for help, or because I was wearing a challenger shirt. Or both. He didn’t stop walking.

“How can I help you?” he said softly, with a touch of confusion.

His calm voice didn’t fit with the surprise that he showed. The guy was very cool.

“They’re after me,” I said, glancing back toward the dados. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t bet on the match, but they’re shooting at me.”

The guy glanced back toward the dados, then to me. He said, “I’m surprised to see a challenger on the street.”

There wasn’t time for discussion. The dados were almost on us. If I didn’t get through to this guy, fast, I’d be done. I took a chance and grabbed my left biceps with my right hand-the same signal I’d seen him exchange with the woman who drove the motor scooter into the dados. I didn’t know if the guy would react, or keep walking as if it meant nothing to him.

“Get on,” he said, suddenly all business.

Yes! The guy threw his leg over the motor scooter. I hopped on to the back as he kicked the engine to life. It hummed with a soft whine that didn’t speak to the true power of this bike, for when he hit the throttle, we took off. Fast.

“Hang on,” he commanded, and made a hard right, turning into traffic. The instant he made the turn, I heard the familiar sound of shots being fired.

Fum. Fum. Fum.

So much for the dados not wanting to hurt innocent bystanders. A guy to the right of me was knocked off his feet. Another woman was hit, and spun around but was able to stay upright. I was horrified. Were people dying around me? Why were these dados so desperate that they were willing to shoot innocent people to get me? Did life mean so little to them? Or was I that important? If I was going to find the answers, I first had to stay alive. My fate was in the hands of this mysterious old guy and his scoot.

The guy may have been old, but he knew how to handle the motorbike. He drove us across traffic, weaving back and forth, threading between the slow-moving cars. I didn’t dare look back, for fear of throwing us off balance. We hit the far sidewalk, bounced up over the curb, and turned into the flow of pedestrians. People had to dodge out of our way, but this guy didn’t care. He drove the bike quickly and dangerously. For a moment I flashed back to riding behind Uncle Press on his motorcycle as he took me from home to my first rendezvous with the flume. It felt like a lifetime ago. Or six.

The guy made a hard right, turning into a narrow alley between buildings. We reached the end of the building, where he skidded us into another hard right and an even smaller alley. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. I had made the right call. He wound us through a few more turns until we were in a place of twisted streets, hidden deep within the cavern of buildings, where no people were walking. I was ready for him to stop because I didn’t think the dados had any chance of following that wacked route, but he kept pressing forward. I didn’t say a word. This was his show.

Finally he made an abrupt turn that nearly threw me off the bike. We side-slid a few feet, then shot inside a garage door. Once in, he hit the brakes so hard I thought I was going to fly over his head. Before we came to a full stop, the garage door was already closing. The door hadn’t hit the floor before the guy pulled himself off the bike and turned to me. His eyes weren’t so calm anymore. I didn’t blame him. That was a pretty wild ride.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Uh-oh. He had just risked his life to save me and now he wanted answers.

“Uhhh…” was all I could get out. Nice answer, huh? I had been too worried about getting away from the dados to think up a plausible story.

“How did you escape?” he asked. “No challenger has ever escaped.”

“I, uh, you see, funny thing.” I chuckled, trying to sound casual. “I’m not a challenger. This isn’t my shirt.”

“And I suppose that isn’t your loop?” he asked with suspicion. I glanced at the silver bracelet around my arm. It was still blinking purple. I looked to the guy, sheepish. He reminded me of my father. He was about my size, with short brown hair that was going gray. At that moment it actually felt like I was being scolded by a doubting parent. I tried to pull the loop off, but again, it clung to my arm.

“It’s not my loop,” I said. “I found these clothes and-” “Who is that?” came a woman’s voice. I looked deeper into the dark garage to see someone approaching. She took a few steps toward us, stepping into the light that came in through an overhead window. I immediately recognized her as the woman who skidded the motorbike into the dados, allowing the terrified guy to escape. She had short dark hair that was kind of spiked up. The collar of her dark shirt was turned up. That little bit of style made the drab outfit look suddenly… cool.