He held his knife up. “We don’t have to do this,” he said. “All we want is to look around the place.” The words sounded ridiculous, even to him.
Her brow wrinkled in confusion, and then she spoke. Michael had no idea what she was saying—he couldn’t even tell the language—but she seemed angry.
He took a step back as if he was scared and about to run, then charged forward, hoping to catch her off guard. But instead of retreating, she smiled even more, seeming happy to let the attack come to her. Michael flashed his blade as if to stab her but then leaped off the ground, kicking both legs out straight toward the soldier’s chest. She tried to dodge but moved too late, and his feet slammed into her. Letting out a strangled cry, she stumbled backward and fell onto her side.
Michael crashed to the cold ground, too, but was back on his feet in an instant, running at the lady, who was only just putting her hands down to push herself up. He dropped his shoulder and tackled her, the two of them tumbling over each other several times before they came to a stop, Michael on top. She’d lost her knife but had somehow held on to the metal pole. She swung it at Michael and he dropped his blade, caught the shaft in both fists, then struggled to rip it out of her grip—but she was too strong. Seesawing left and right, neither of them would let go. Finally, he squeezed the pole and slammed it downward, smashing it into her mouth.
The awful sound of teeth breaking made Michael weak, and he almost lost his grip. The woman screamed and released the pole, both of her hands shooting to her face. She wailed as she tried to struggle out from under him, but he squeezed her torso with his thighs like a man on a horse, refusing to fall. The pole now fully his, Michael raised it and slammed it back down again. There was a terrible, hard thump and the woman went still and silent.
As soon as she stopped moving, Michael jumped up and grabbed his knife, pole and blade both held firmly, ready to fight if he needed to. But she remained frozen.
He stayed that way, breaths coming ragged, the cold air burning his lungs, until someone tackled him from behind, hitting him so hard his head whipped back and smacked into the attacker’s face. Together they landed on the ground, and Michael felt every last bit of air leave his lungs. The person spun him onto his back and then straddled him, pinning Michael’s arms with his legs. The man’s face hung over Michael’s, flushed and covered with cuts, mad blue eyes drilling holes into him. The stranger was twice the size of the lady who’d attacked him first and held a knife at Michael’s neck.
Michael didn’t care what Sarah had said; he wanted to use the code to pull in a weapon from another game. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the sea of programming, frantically thinking through his options. But it was too late.
The man on top of him spoke in the same strange language the woman had, then calmly slid his blade across Michael’s throat. Cold pain flared through his neck, followed by warmth as the blood started flowing out of his body.
A few seconds later, he died.
CHAPTER 11
IN THE TRENCHES
1
Michael hated the uncomfortable period of twenty to thirty seconds after he’d died within a self-contained game like Devils of Destruction. There was a disturbing dark vacuum of nothingness before you started your next life. It was done on purpose, to give people more of a real sense of death—to give them a moment to ponder what had happened and what it might be like if it had been for real. Time to think, What if I had really kicked the bucket? What if this was it?
This time, as Michael waited it out, he was just angry. They’d barely begun, and already he’d been killed. He didn’t even get a chance to look in one stinking trench! How in the world would they ever search them all? Mentally tapping his fingers, he lay there in silence. Finally, a light appeared before him and grew until it pulled him back into the full world of the VirtNet.
His eyes snapped open, and he was lying in front of the door that led into the snowy world where he’d just been murdered. The bar was back in place across the entrance. He breathed a sigh of relief, glad he hadn’t been sent all the way back to the lobby. He didn’t think he had it in him to get past Stonewall and Ryker-the-angry-cowgirl-child again.
Groaning from the painful aftereffects of his two fights—if he could call the doomed second tussle an actual fight—Michael sat up. He was alone in the tunnel, so he knew that Bryson and Sarah were still alive or had died and already gone back out there.
He was still dressed head to toe in warm garb, and the stuffed backpack was beside him. After a quick check of the guns in the locker—none of them worked—and a somewhat foolish test of a grenade—it didn’t, either—he pulled the heavy bar off the door and slipped back out into the frigid, windy air. As he walked, he brainstormed how he could use code to help himself in this brutal war.
2
Michael saw two people off in the distance trudging up the long white slope. He was sure it was his friends—long brown hair streamed from beneath Sarah’s ski cap, and Bryson’s cocky gait was recognizable even from a distance. He knew he’d never catch up with them, so he decided to take a different route. Instead of marching straight down into battle like an idiot—they hadn’t really known what to expect the first time, he supposed—he planned to skirt to the right and hide along the rise of the hill until he could find a more subtle place to sneak into the fray. He’d gone a couple hundred feet when he saw that Bryson and Sarah had made the same decision, though they’d moved off toward the left.
Good, Michael thought. Maybe collectively they’d at least get a few trenches inspected before some crazed mountain man or lunatic woman slit their throats again.
The wind whipped at Michael’s clothes, and the ice and snow stung the exposed skin on his face. His lips were starting to feel like burnt paper, ready to crack if he dared moisten them again. He almost wanted some action just to get his blood pumping.
The sounds of battle—the screams and haunting cries they’d heard earlier—grew louder as Michael approached the top of the slope. He crouched down and started crawling, thankful for the thick gloves on his hands.
He made it to the lip of the rise and dropped to his stomach, then took a moment to take everything in. Far to his left, Bryson and Sarah were sprinting from hill to hill, pausing behind each before moving on to the next. It didn’t look like they’d been spotted yet, and they were getting close to the outer trenches, where fewer people were concentrated. Most of the fighting still took place in the long, bloody corridor going down the center of the trenches.