The Quillan Games by D.J. MacHale Page A

that territory that didn’t have a similar word in English that I would know. Whatever tribbun was, it couldn’t be found on Second Earth. Just as well. It didn’t sound so hot. I also saw that there was the same word printed on each label above the contents. BLOK. There it was again. Blok. Over and over.
    As I sprinted down one of the long aisles filled with multicolored containers, I heard the door smash open behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to know the dados were right on my tail.
    â€œOn the ground!” shouted one of the dados in that low, robotic voice. Instantly every one of the people in the store moved to the side of the aisle and knelt down to let the dados by. It was scary to see how these people were so obedient. Were they afraid of the dados? From what I’d seen so far, I didn’t blame them. I was too. I turned quickly into another aisle and kept running. My only hope was that there would be an exit on the far side of the store. I saw a counter ahead of me where people were paying for their purchases. At least that’s what they usually did. Right then they were ducked down and cowering, because somebody was being chased. Me. I was relieved to see a doorway behind the counter. Without hesitation I ran for the counter, vaulted over it, and landed next to a very frightened-looking store clerk. I made quick eye contact. He was scared, no question, but as soon as he saw me, he whispered, “Good luck.”
    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.
    â€œSorry!” 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 theywouldn’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