Michael Grant - Bzrk Apocalypse

“Yeah, but games are real,” Billy said. That’s what you don’t get, with respect to you, Plath. Games are real to the people playing them. While they’re playing.”

No one said anything; after all, Billy was just a kid. But Keats couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just heard something important, that Billy had blurted out the truth. It could be real, and dangerous, and deadly, and yet still be a game, he thought.

First published in Great Britain 2014

by Electric Monkey – an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London, W11 4AN

Copyright © The Shadow Gang 2014

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

Endpage photograph © Georgy Shafeev@shutterstock.com

First e-book edition 2014

ISBN 978 1 4052 6313 9

eISBN 978 1 7803 1256 9

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Please note: Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont cannot take responsibility for any third party content or advertising. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

Our story began over a century ago, when seventeen-year-old Egmont Harald Petersen found a coin in the street. He was on his way to buy a flyswatter, a small hand-operated printing machine that he then set up in his tiny apartment.

The coin brought him such good luck that today Egmont has offices in over 30 countries around the world. And that lucky coin is still kept at the company’s head offices in Denmark.

For Katherine, Jake, and Julia.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright First published in Great Britain 2014 by Electric Monkey – an imprint of Egmont UK Limited The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London, W11 4AN Copyright © The Shadow Gang 2014 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Endpage photograph © Georgy Shafeev@shutterstock.com First e-book edition 2014 ISBN 978 1 4052 6313 9 eISBN 978 1 7803 1256 9 www.egmont.co.uk A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Please note: Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont cannot take responsibility for any third party content or advertising. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet. Our story began over a century ago, when seventeen-year-old Egmont Harald Petersen found a coin in the street. He was on his way to buy a flyswatter, a small hand-operated printing machine that he then set up in his tiny apartment. The coin brought him such good luck that today Egmont has offices in over 30 countries around the world. And that lucky coin is still kept at the company’s head offices in Denmark.

Dedication For Katherine, Jake, and Julia.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

ARTIFACT

ELAPSED TIME

FIVE

SIX

ARTIFACT

ARTIFACT

SEVEN

EIGHT

BRAZIL

LOS ANGELES

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

ARTIFACT

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

ARTIFACT

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

STATE OF PLAY

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

TWO YEARS LATER

TWELVE YEARS LATER

Coming soon from Michael Grant

Sandra Piper was having dinner with friends when it started.

She was eating chilled lobster on the teak deck of a producer friend’s Malibu home, along with a former co-star named Wade Talon (a ridiculous screen name in Sandra’s opinion), her current director, Quentin (no last name necessary), a very rich and rather magnificently tattooed woman named Lystra Reid who had an odd vocal tic that added “Yeah,” to random sentences, and an extraordinarily fit, tall, and broad-shouldered man whose name she kept forgetting but who might have been named Noble, or something very close to that.

The Noble creature was listening, rapt, while the more famous folk discussed work and mutual friends and more work. In fact, in one way or another it was all work.

Sandra had been nominated. Best Actress. Very tough competition. The oddsmakers called her a long shot at six to one. Long but not impossible. And despite the fact that Sandra Piper was a mother of two, a down-to-earth thirty-ish woman with a masters in economics who had smoked pot exactly twice in her life and never drank more than two glasses of wine, she was thinking of seducing young Mr Shoulders. Mr Shy Grin. Mr Large-But-Sensitive Hands.

Because he was definitely interested, and she had been divorced for two years and dated no one in that time. And she was exhausted from long days on the current shoot, plus her son, Quarle (three years old), had just gotten over a two-week-long bout of flu.

And really, what the hell was the point of being America’s Sweetheart if you couldn’t even get laid? Would a male actor in the same situation even hesitate? Well, some, sure. But lots wouldn’t. So why should she? Wasn’t that why Quentin had invited Noble . . . No, wait, now she remembered. His name was Nolan. Whatever. Wasn’t he there for her, um . . . amusement?

Unless. Oh, had he come with the Lystra person? Was he here for her ? She would be closer to his age, not a beauty but attractive enough, given that she was not Hollywood at all but some sort of healthcare billionaire.

No. No, young Mr Body of Steel was not eyeing Lystra. He was eyeing the next winner of the Academy Award for Best Actress. Uh huh.

But the idea sighed inside her and deflated like a balloon with a slow leak. She shook her head, a tiny movement not intended for anyone else, and took a deep breath. She had to help Quinn (seven years old) with her stupid California Mission project, due tomorrow.

God she was boring. Boring and responsible and definitely America’s Sweetheart, except that when it came right down to it, she was Mommy.

Suddenly her hand jerked and she tipped her wine glass over. The last ounce of white wine drained onto the wood surface, alarming no one.

“Sorry. I just—”

Sandra frowned. Shook her head.

“What’s the matter, Sandy?” Wade asked.

“I’m just . . .” She shook her head again. Frowned, despite the fact that frowning would crease her ageless forehead. “Oh my God, is there something in the wine? I’m . . . I’m seeing something.”