me and don’t try to
protect me. I know you’ll want to, but don’t. Caligula …the man in
the fanciful hat? He’ll …he will resent it. Find me an escape route.”
She started to walk away, hesitated, then over her shoulder added,
“Something near the beach, in Africa.”
Billy the Kid had spent the night after the massacre at the foster
home where he had not been in the three weeks since joining BZRK.
He could think of nowhere else to go, and he felt hollowed-out and
stretched very, very thin.
The man in the foster home, Daddy Tom as he liked to be called,
let him in without a word and said nothing as Billy trudged wearily to
the bedroom he shared with a boy named Marshall.
Daddy Tom smirked as Billy came in, but to Billy’s relief he didn’t
insist on seeing what was in the bag. In the morning an only-slightlyrested Billy walked out onto cold streets beneath threatening clouds.
He needed to think, and he needed to figure things out. Everyone from BZRK Washington was dead. They hadn’t really liked him
anyway, and the feeling was mutual. The Washington BZRKers kept
telling him they’d let him play the game, but they never did. He heard
about biots, he knew what they were, they’d let him see some very
weird video. But they had not given him a biot.
It was in online gaming forums that he had first heard from someone calling himself Lear. Billy had posted some impressive numbers,
and he’d let it be known that he was a foster kid, unconnected, sick of
where he was, looking for …well, looking.
Joining the Washington BZRK group had set off an uproar, with
some of the others demanding to know what the hell was going on if
they were down to recruiting children.
Well, they were all dead, weren’t they? And he was the one walking around with their credit cards and their phones and their pads.
So much for being a child.
The others had died like newbies. They had barely gotten off
a shot, like this was the first time they’d ever really played an FPS
game. They’d been surprised and they had panicked.
Newbies.
And he was the child?
Suddenly he saw that house again in memory, the common room
with the twisted tangle of bodies on the floor and blood all over the
walls and the stink of urine and feces.
He threw up thinking about it and looked up to realize he was
throwing up within sight of the White House. How weird was that? It
made him feel …well, something made him feel …strange, sick, like
he wanted to be even sicker. But no, he wasn’t having any of that.
He stopped and sat on a park bench and searched the phones for
Lear. Lear was the big boss, right? Well, didn’t Lear owe him now?
Who had killed all those phony cops? Not the so-called adults. Billy.
Billy the Kid.
BANG! Hole. Smoke. Blood.
That was new, that’s what still made him feel wrong: real blood.
And real death, which was so much dirtier than the gaming version.
A car went past, horn blaring, and he realized he’d stepped into
traffic, like he had lost consciousness or whatever, like his brain had
stopped functioning.
He reached the far curb, shaking. His lungs felt congested. The
wound in his side burned with fresh pain. He had put some Neosporin and Band-Aids on it and managed to sleep with a couple of Advil.
But now, walking, walking, the scab that had formed was chafing. He
looked under his jacket and saw blood staining his shirt.
There were tears in Billy’s eyes, and he couldn’t explain why. The
pain was bad but not that bad.
The rain started then and he ran to shelter in an office building’s doorway. There were some people there smoking cigarettes.
He ignored them, and they ignored him. He continued thumbing
through the calls made and received on the phones but found nothing that looked like it might be either to or from Lear. Then he started
on messages. Also nothing.
That first phone had used 1111 as its password, which was just
plain dumb, but breaking security on the second phone was
protect me. I know you’ll want to, but don’t. Caligula …the man in
the fanciful hat? He’ll …he will resent it. Find me an escape route.”
She started to walk away, hesitated, then over her shoulder added,
“Something near the beach, in Africa.”
Billy the Kid had spent the night after the massacre at the foster
home where he had not been in the three weeks since joining BZRK.
He could think of nowhere else to go, and he felt hollowed-out and
stretched very, very thin.
The man in the foster home, Daddy Tom as he liked to be called,
let him in without a word and said nothing as Billy trudged wearily to
the bedroom he shared with a boy named Marshall.
Daddy Tom smirked as Billy came in, but to Billy’s relief he didn’t
insist on seeing what was in the bag. In the morning an only-slightlyrested Billy walked out onto cold streets beneath threatening clouds.
He needed to think, and he needed to figure things out. Everyone from BZRK Washington was dead. They hadn’t really liked him
anyway, and the feeling was mutual. The Washington BZRKers kept
telling him they’d let him play the game, but they never did. He heard
about biots, he knew what they were, they’d let him see some very
weird video. But they had not given him a biot.
It was in online gaming forums that he had first heard from someone calling himself Lear. Billy had posted some impressive numbers,
and he’d let it be known that he was a foster kid, unconnected, sick of
where he was, looking for …well, looking.
Joining the Washington BZRK group had set off an uproar, with
some of the others demanding to know what the hell was going on if
they were down to recruiting children.
Well, they were all dead, weren’t they? And he was the one walking around with their credit cards and their phones and their pads.
So much for being a child.
The others had died like newbies. They had barely gotten off
a shot, like this was the first time they’d ever really played an FPS
game. They’d been surprised and they had panicked.
Newbies.
And he was the child?
Suddenly he saw that house again in memory, the common room
with the twisted tangle of bodies on the floor and blood all over the
walls and the stink of urine and feces.
He threw up thinking about it and looked up to realize he was
throwing up within sight of the White House. How weird was that? It
made him feel …well, something made him feel …strange, sick, like
he wanted to be even sicker. But no, he wasn’t having any of that.
He stopped and sat on a park bench and searched the phones for
Lear. Lear was the big boss, right? Well, didn’t Lear owe him now?
Who had killed all those phony cops? Not the so-called adults. Billy.
Billy the Kid.
BANG! Hole. Smoke. Blood.
That was new, that’s what still made him feel wrong: real blood.
And real death, which was so much dirtier than the gaming version.
A car went past, horn blaring, and he realized he’d stepped into
traffic, like he had lost consciousness or whatever, like his brain had
stopped functioning.
He reached the far curb, shaking. His lungs felt congested. The
wound in his side burned with fresh pain. He had put some Neosporin and Band-Aids on it and managed to sleep with a couple of Advil.
But now, walking, walking, the scab that had formed was chafing. He
looked under his jacket and saw blood staining his shirt.
There were tears in Billy’s eyes, and he couldn’t explain why. The
pain was bad but not that bad.
The rain started then and he ran to shelter in an office building’s doorway. There were some people there smoking cigarettes.
He ignored them, and they ignored him. He continued thumbing
through the calls made and received on the phones but found nothing that looked like it might be either to or from Lear. Then he started
on messages. Also nothing.
That first phone had used 1111 as its password, which was just
plain dumb, but breaking security on the second phone was
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