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to her feet and spun slowly, sword in front, preparing for an ambush. After another minute of icy silence, she gripped the hilt tighter, lowered it to her waist, then took a tentative step toward the darkness where the sound originated from.
At least it’s not zombies.
Zombies were too stupid to stalk their prey and rarely traveled in isolation, unless they happened to get separated from the rest of the hordes.
It had to be another player, waiting to strike. Ana had enough fear and doubts circling through her mind without adding another player stalking her. Better to draw the player out and deal with them now than have to worry and wait for when they’d strike, she figured. If Ana took the initiative, then she controlled the exchange. It didn’t have to end in a battle.
It was still early enough in the game for an impromptu alliance. Calling out to her pursuer now could earn her a truce. Even if the other player didn’t want to join her, they might realize that ignoring Ana and moving on might be the easier route. Ana had a sword. If the walking shadow was wielding a bow, gun, or any other long-range weapon, Ana would be dead already, she figured. So she had an advantage if she handled it smartly.
But she wasn’t sure the best way to handle an opponent she couldn’t even see. On one hand, calling out another player would make her seem bold and brave.
But it could also make her seem weak.
In a game built on survival of the fittest, even the slightest show of frailty could get you killed. The Network broadcast players’ flaws whenever it seemed reasonable that a chink in another player’s armor might make for aggressive battle, conflict, or anything that might keep viewers staring at their screens.
She had to appear strong, even if it was a hollow conceit. Perhaps she could spout some nonsense words, loud and thick with rage. Maybe screaming something her attacker couldn’t understand would scare them into retreat.
It had worked for Crazy Cal Moody — well, for a while, anyway.
Crazy Cal was a player from a few years back who pretended he was a lunatic. Whenever he got into a fight, he drew a perfect picture of insanity, biting people on the face, screaming at the top of his lungs — utter nonsense that sounded like he was speaking in tongues — along with anything else he could do to scare the living crap out of everyone around him, at least long enough to get him to the Mesa virtually unscathed.
Cal’s false insanity was one of the best tactics Ana had ever seen. No other players, and few viewers, had figured Cal out. Her father called it early, almost immediately, though no one believed him. “He’s only acting crazy,” he insisted. “You can see the cunning in his eyes.”
Cal made it to the Final Four, and then three, relaxing his guard only after befriending a 15-year old named Ben Mallard, who faked a broken arm to earn other players’ sympathy. When Ben at first resisted Cal’s offer of help, saying he was too scared to pair up with the man, Cal let down his guard and told the kid he wasn’t crazy and wouldn’t hurt him. To this day, nobody knew why Cal would drop his successful strategy and befriend the kid. Some, like Ana, thought it was kindness while others thought it was the loneliness of playing a purely solo game.
Whatever the reason, it would prove to be Cal’s one mistake in an otherwise perfect game.
On the night before The Final Challenge, one early morning’s walk from the Mesa, with just one other player left in The Games, Ben and Cal settled in for their last evening’s sleep, both knowing only one would make it to the end, but comforted that at least things were better together.
They agreed to take shifts sleeping in case The Game’s final remaining player, Jude Dawson, encountered their camp. Cal went to bed, crazy enough to fall asleep soundly, believing Ben would keep him safe, and not for a second expecting the boy to slit his throat six seconds into his snoring.
Far better, Ana thought, to have other players fear you than to embolden them enough to come at you.
Another crunch of snow split the otherwise silent night.
Ana turned to the source, which remained hidden in the darkness now roughly ten feet away from her, and said, “Show yourself.”
Silence stretched for one minute too many as Ana stood frozen in place, icy blade hovering in front of her body. “I know you’re there.” She took a step forward and yell-whispered, “I can smell
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