ZerOes by Chuck Wendig

appears suddenly large on the screen—blurry, pixilated, purple.
    Then the call ends.
    â€œAsshole,” Hollis says, hoping Golathan can still hear him.

                                    CHAPTER 12
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  The Stolper Two-Step
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    THE LODGE
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    T hey’re walking back to the cabin. None of them are really talking to one another—they’re walking together but they’re not walking together . Chance hangs back even farther. He’s been here, what, two hours? And he’s already feeling like a rat with its tail caught in a trap, little claws scrabbling against the cellar floor.
    God damn that Graves. He’s right. Chance doesn’t belong here. He’s a rube, a newb, a poser. But it’s here or it’s prison. And it’s one year here. Or maybe ten there.
    He’s gotta stay in the game.
    His palms sweat. His heart hammers in the sides of his neck. He feels suddenly, overwhelmingly alone.
    And that’s when, of all people, Reagan Stolper hangs back. “’Sup, Chauncey,” she says.
    â€œReally wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
    â€œOkay, jeez, fine. Chance . Hey, listen, don’t sweat Graves.”
    He cocks his head. “Yeah?”
    â€œYeah. Fuck him.”
    â€œYou looked awfully into him.”
    She shrugs, makes a face. “I really would fuck him. He’s like a sweet-ass Popsicle I just wanna—” Reagan mimes sucking a Popsicle, then biting it. She smacks her lips. “Mmm. Yeah. And his résumé is most impressive . But I don’t like people who think they’re too big for their britches. I see egos like that, it stops mattering how frothy my panties get—my greatest urge is to knock that cocky parrot off his perch.” She grins big, then musses his hair the same way Graves did. “Don’t worry, Chauncey. I got your back.”

    Reagan whistles as she walks up to the basketball court. Peter and the Wolf . Doo-doo-dee-doo-dee-doo. There, on the court, stands Shane Graves. His babysitter, who she’s pretty sure is named Rivera, stands there, too—practically nose to nose with him.
    In Graves’s back pocket is a phone. Black like volcanic glass. Thin profile.
    Rivera’s a slug. Might’ve been a lean cut of meat once—muscled of body, principled of mind. But now he looks like a mess. Sloppy. Tired. Everything untucked . Got all the hallmarks of being a drunk except for the smell of liquor coming off him.
    They look, see Reagan sauntering over.
    Graves takes the basketball he’s holding, thrusts it into Rivera’s middle. The hack makes an oof sound. He passes it back.
    She hears Shane tell Rivera: “Take a hike.”
    Rivera probably doesn’t want to seem like he can be pushed around, so he says, “Whatever, Graves, don’t fuck up.” But to Reagan’s trained ear it sounds rehearsed: a bluff, some bullshit bluster. He passes her, gives her a look. “What?” he asks sharply.
    She shrugs, keeps walking.
    Now it’s Shane’s turn. Eyebrows raised. “What?”
    â€œHey, Graves. Or should I say Ivo Shandor.”
    â€œWhat’s your name? Stapler?”
    â€œYou know my name. You know more about me than I do, probably. I know you got a phone. I know you probably have a laptop here. I figure you’ve got Rivera in your pocket, somehow. You were Hacker Supreme on the outside, so no reason to think differently here on the inside.”
    â€œSo you’re less of a zero than your cohorts.” He spins the ball in his hands. Dribbles it a few times. “What do you want, Reagan?”
    â€œIt’s more about what you want.”
    â€œAnd what do I want?”
    â€œBesides a puppy? I’m guessing you have a