Rush The Game

it takes us to get to the objective is the time it takes our bodies and minds to reach optimum performance. Endorphins and adrenaline stimulated by the run aid the transition. Reason two: When a rift is created so we can get dropped, it alerts our targets. The farther away we are, the less likely that they can pinpoint exactly where we were dropped or how long it’ll take for us to reach them. If we’re dropped in a city, the masses of people can help mask us, so we’re dropped fairly close. If we’re somewhere isolated, like a desert, we get dropped farther away. Our cons scramble our signal once we’re here, and that makes it even tougher for them.”
    “You know a lot about this,” I say.
    “Been in it awhile.” He pauses. “When I first got pulled, I asked a lot of questions, too.”
    “So you can apply the info to the game you plan to sell.”
    “Damn right.” He grins. “Dollars are in the details.”
    “Got any more urgent questions?” Jackson asks.
    “I’ll let you know if I think of any.”
    “Fair enough.”
    We follow as Jackson leads us away from the lights and the people, down streets that look dingy to an alley that looks downright scary. There’s a line of garbage bags up against a brick wall. At the far end of the alley is a single vertical sign with only one letter lit up: a p . There’s a Dumpster to the left. Jackson leads us around it, into a narrower alley bordered by buildings that look deserted.
    The smell of rotting garbage slaps me, but more than that, the air feels wrong. Too thick. Too heavy.
    My pulse is pounding. My mouth is dry. My palms are slick. And I don’t even know why I feel so afraid.
    “There,” Jackson whispers. He points first at Tyrone, then at Luka, then at a shadowy doorway.
    Tyrone moves up so that he and Jackson flank the doorway. Luka turns his back to us, keeping an eye on the alley. Richelle looks ready for . . . something . They’ve done this before. Everyone seems to know their place. Except me.
    As if he senses my uncertainty, Jackson turns his face toward me and gives his head a tiny jerk, beckoning me closer.
    My fear ramps up as I will myself to take the few steps to close the distance between us. There’s something here, behind that door. Something I don’t want to be anywhere near. I can feel it on my skin, taste it on my tongue.
    Enemy .
    That certainty burns in some primitive part of my soul.
    “Weapons,” Jackson says, so low I almost miss it. From the corner of my eye, I see Luka pull out his cylinder from the holster at his hip. I do the same, mostly because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what’s coming, but I know that I’m terrified. More scared than I was when I jumped in front of that truck. More scared than I was when I woke up thinking I was dead.
    My fingers don’t quite reach all the way around the cylinder, which is cool and hard in my hand. Pointing and firing this thing is going to be awkward. I’m used to holding the hilt of my kendo sword, but that’s a whole different motion.
    No sooner do I process that thought than the cylinder changes. It shifts and melds, taking on finger ridges, forming to my hand, as if it’s an extension of my body. I can feel it there, like it’s just part of me. I gasp and my gaze jerks up, searching for the others. But of course, this isn’t the time to chat about the wonder of my new discovery.
    Luka gives a last scan of the alley, then moves closer. Richelle inches forward and stretches her fingers toward the door while the others raise their weapons and cover her.
    The feeling of horror in my gut curdles into an icy mass. I can’t let her go in there. I can’t let any of us go in there. If she goes through that door, we all die. I don’t know how I know that, I just do.
    I slam my palm against her shoulder blade, shoving her out of the way. She stumbles a couple of steps to the side. I dance back, away from the door and the horrific fear it drags from my soul.
    Luka rests his hand on my arm and leans in. “We all feel it.” His voice is low and reassuring. “You get used to it.”
    “I’ll take care of this.” Jackson’s tone is terse. I read surprise in Luka’s expression, then a hint of mutiny. He wants to argue. I can see it. A silent undercurrent I can’t decipher passes between them. Finally, Luka nods and steps away.
    Jackson’s so close that the length of his arm presses against mine. We’re lined up like a T, with my body at ninety