The Eye of Minds

^{CHAPTER 11} IN THE TRENCHES

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.

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.

The sounds of metal clashing against metal, animalistic grunts, and primal screams were carried on the wind to Michael. He still couldn’t believe that anyone would voluntarily take part in such brutality. As he watched one of the closer fights, he saw a man stab another man, shouting at the top of his lungs the whole time. After everything Michael had seen in countless movies and experienced in games, he still had to look away. This place was hell.

Focus, he told himself. Avoid being seen, and concentrate on the trenches.

Staying just below the sight line of those battling in the valley, he crawled military-style across the frozen snow. Worried that his backpack would give him away, he finally took it off and chucked it, not sure why he had it in the first place. He’d be thrilled if he lived long enough to worry about needing food or extra clothing.

He made his way down to the right of the valley, so far unseen. Several rows of trenches lay between him and most of the fighting now, but it was still impossible to get a good look at how many people waited inside them. He stopped behind a small mound of packed snow and gathered his wits. The memory of that blade slicing his neck was still fresh, as if the pain still lingered there.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the surrounding code for a second. It seemed elusive and hard to read, as if the sea of numbers and letters churned in a fierce storm. It took him a few minutes, but he was finally able to latch on to a string of programming he’d used in a game called Dungeons of Delmar. It would give his knife a magical quality, bursts of unseen force from its tip that might go unnoticed.

It was better than nothing.

As he had to do sometimes in the Sleep, Michael gave himself a pep talk, a reminder that as bad it seemed, he wouldn’t actually die if he was killed. Pain, yes. Terror, yes. Traumatized forever, maybe. But at least he’d still be alive at the end of the day.

Eyes closed. Deep breaths. Eyes open again. Code-enhanced knife pulled from his belt, gripped firmly in his right hand.

He got up and ran for the closest trench.

His heart pounded and cold air burned his lungs raw, but Michael willed himself to set it all aside and run as fast as possible. A few soldiers noticed him, but they were on the far side of the trench Michael was headed for, and no one approached him—they just kept beating on each other.

The edge of the trench was suddenly at his feet. He pulled to a stop and looked down, quickly scanning the interior—about fifteen feet deep. It was empty except for a wooden bench and a slushy path going down the middle. The walls were covered by black tarps—held in place at the top by old tires and pots and pans. There were no soldiers inside.

Because Michael didn’t see a clear Portal, he almost turned and ran for the next trench, but he stopped himself. Who knew what the Portal looked like, anyway—or whether the weakness in the code would be easily spotted? It hit him then, the enormity of the task that lay ahead of them. It would take forever to search each trench from top to bottom. And they didn’t even know what they were searching for, exactly.

Sighing, Michael found a ladder and climbed down to begin.

The black tarps that covered the walls of the trench were easy to move. Michael pulled one back and ducked underneath it, then walked along the side of the trench from one end to the other, feeling up and down the expanse of ice. But that’s all it was—ice and hard-packed snow. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. Every once in a while, he closed his eyes to look for anomalies in the code or anything that stood out. But it was all solid.

When he came out of the tarp on the far side, he checked to make sure the trench was still empty, then moved on to the other wall.

Nothing.

He walked once more down the center, kicking through the slush and checking the code for anything weird. Then he examined the bench. Another check of the programming.

Nothing.

As Michael climbed the ladder out of the ditch, he tried not to think of how much time he’d just wasted. There’d be no way of knowing which trench held the Portal until he and his friends searched them—one by one. He sighed again. He supposed no amount of effort was really a waste.

At least that’s what he told himself. He couldn’t shake the hopeless feeling that they’d never find what they were looking for. There were still at least a hundred more to go.

No one was running at him—at least not yet. And a glance around the battlefield showed no sign of his friends.

Michael headed for the next trench.

No one was inside that one, either.

Michael scaled down and began his search. He slipped under a wall tarp and made his way down one side, then up the other, checking the code now and then. But it all looked fine. There was nothing there.

He climbed out, discouraged but ready to check the next space. He’d let his guard down, so he was surprised when he saw a woman standing there, waiting for him. Dressed in the same winter camouflage Michael wore, she looked clean and fresh, like she’d just walked out of the tunnel. Her face would’ve been pretty if it wasn’t screwed up into a nasty snarl.

“Micky told me I’d have an easy kill over here,” she said. “Nothing like a stray kid who’s tippy-toed his way in without permission. You’ll be a good game-starter for me.” Her expression had warmed a bit as she spoke but twisted back into a snarl when she finished.

“Easy?” Michael repeated. “What makes you think I’m gonna be easy?” He casually took a step backward, lining up the heels of his boots with the top edge of the trench. He wanted to look like someone who was scared but trying not to act like it.

“How many times have you been in here?” she asked, again relaxing that horrible face only to pull it back when she was done talking.

“This is my first time,” he said innocently. “But I did have a kill already. That’s not too bad, right?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to enjoy this way too much.”

Michael just grinned and said, “Go for it.”

He wanted her to make the first move, and it worked. She came at him, her angry face flushed a deep red.

She pulled back her fist, and right before she hit him Michael dropped to the ground, onto his side. He knew there’d be a risk of slipping over the edge and into the trench, but he was willing to take it to avoid another fight. He squeezed the handle of his knife and sent a bolt of invisible power at her torso, and she catapulted forward.

She flew over Michael and fell, screaming, to the trench floor. Before she had time to get to her feet, Michael was sprinting for the next trench. If he was lucky she’d broken a leg.

There was a man sleeping on the bench inside the next trench. Other than that, it was empty. Michael was ecstatic. He ran to the steps and climbed down. At first he considered doing a quick search without bothering the guy, but then thought better of it. The man might wake up while Michael was under the tarp, and Michael would be wide open for attack. He couldn’t take any chances.

Michael stood near the sleeping man, watching his chest rise and fall. Not wanting to get too close, he quietly pulled out his blade and aimed, then shot a clear laser of power across the man’s neck, trying not to gag as the soldier sprang awake and grabbed at his bleeding wound. He fell off the bench, and for the second time that day, Michael had to remind himself that he hadn’t actually killed a person. It looked so real.

The man bled until his body was empty, then vanished.

A quick but thorough search of the trench revealed that once again Michael had struck out. Three down, dozens to go. He groaned.

“Not happy down there?”

He glanced up to see a man and a woman standing directly above him, right on the edge of the trench. The woman was bouncing a grenade from hand to hand.

“Um, no, I’m just taking a breather is all.” Thankfully his clothes were now dirty and smeared with blood. He fit in much better, looked like he belonged.

“Nothing but a dumb kid,” the man said to the woman. “Think you’re going to get away with using code from other games? And there’s no doubt you’re a rookie.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Because you haven’t turned to run yet. You’re probably pretty sure this grenade doesn’t work.”

Michael started to answer, but before he could get a word out the woman pulled the pin and tossed the grenade. It landed with a wet thunk in the slush at Michael’s feet. He looked at the pair of soldiers with defiance. They turned and ran.

When the grenade blew, Michael felt it. This time there was a brilliant explosion of pain so acute and short he didn’t even have time to scream. Then came the void of dark space that they called death.

He woke up back at the beginning, in the icy tunnel. Bryson was sitting there and didn’t seem the least bit surprised when Michael appeared before him.

“Sucks being killed out there,” Bryson said. “I hurt.” He paused. “All over.”

“Yeah, me too.” Michael stood up and stretched, felt the lingering aches and pains from his two deaths. They weren’t quite the same as real injuries—the Coffin stimulated nerves for physical reactions—but enough to ensure you wouldn’t forget too quickly.

“How’s Sarah doing?” he asked.

Bryson shrugged. “I don’t know. We got separated.”

“How many trenches have you seen?”

Bryson held up two gloved fingers. “But nothing yet.”

“Man,” Michael groaned. “This is gonna take years.”

“Nah, we’ll be fine,” Bryson answered, climbing to his feet to join him. “Having fun?”

Michael looked at him for a second. “No, I hate every minute of it,” he finally said, then held up his knife. “I ended up borrowing a little something from Dungeons of Delmar.”

“Yeah,” Bryson replied absently, his face screwed up in a grimace. “It’s weird how these old geezers like to kill—like they’re animals. I need to program myself a little help.”

Michael nodded. “Let’s just find that stupid Portal.”

Out the door they went.

The next couple of days were pure hell for Michael.

He died twenty-seven times, in every way imaginable, within the borders of that brutal, icy arena. Some deaths were worse than others, but somehow he kept going back out there. His knife trick helped a few times, and he tried other things like a special leaping ability from the Canyon Jumpers game and enhanced speed from Running with Ragers. They were hard to isolate and program, and ended up only delaying his inevitable doom.

But he pressed on.

Oddly, every day a horn blew at dusk, and the battles ceased immediately. People who’d been going at it like lions were suddenly pals, walking—often limping—toward huge dinner tables with arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing.

Michael and his friends joined them to eat, then headed toward a place where warming lamps and sleeping bags had been laid out. The first night, they’d tried to sneak toward the trenches to search, but they’d come across a temporary firewall and were all too tired to hack it. The security programming in the frigid place was definitely above average.

The next morning it all started up again. Kill, kill, get killed. Pain and suffering. Kill some more, get killed some more. For the first time in his life, Michael understood why real soldiers coming back from real wars often had a hard time getting over the things they’d seen and done. And had done to them. If Michael had a soul, it was starting to leak out of his pores.

The one solace he had was that he and his friends were together. They didn’t say much—or have time to—but at least they were together.

In the late afternoon of the third day, Sarah found the Portal.