Killer Game Page 11

  ‘And that brings us to Kill three, or at least, attempt three.’ Alex finishes the sentence before Tesha can jump on in. ‘Now, I have nothing but awe for the concept. Nice creativity, but stupidly messy, and stupidly random. Firstly, Killer, you need to remember that you’re a serial psycho, not a mass murderer. One Kill at a time. You can Kill one victim, then do another five minutes later, for all I care. But they have to be separate murders, not the result of raining blood-soaked tennis balls on the general populace. There were non-Guild there, and if you had hit them, you would be out on your ear. As it is, we all know you splattered three apprentices: Tesha, Whitney, Anvi. So who’s dead?’

  The three sit up, awaiting their fate.

  ‘We Elders have voted on it,’ Marcia drawls.

  ‘And it looks like you were targeted, Tesha,’ says Cynthia. Tesha’s face drops. Even the curls droop a little.

  ‘But,’ Alex says, ‘we can’t be sure. It was too imprecise. And because of that, all three of you live to fight another day.’ He lets the girls have their noisy celebration and told-you-sos. ‘Be specific, Killer! This is your first and last warning; don’t let it happen again or your reign is over. And—’ he turns to the girls. ‘Be on your guard! Chances are, one of you was on the Killer’s hit list. Don’t make it easy for them.’

  Alex relaxes a little, and cracks open a can of something. ‘Right, before we vote on who the Killer is, there’s time for Zuckerberg here to show us around our new digital home. Fire up the genny.’

  Rick exits into the corridor, and the fairy lights flicker on. The generator hums as Marcia taps away on the laptop, and then hands it to Alex. He swings the screen around to face us all.

  ‘The Elders have discussed how this is going to work, and it’s up to its creator to explain it all to the rest of you. Vaughan?’

  Vaughan leaps up, and takes the stage, willingly. He taps on the keyboard, and the school’s intranet home page comes up. It’s a photograph of the school, with links to the instant messaging app, a school noticeboard and the online version of the school newspaper. In the top right-hand corner is the school crest, a large red flower against a yellow shield, with a phoenix rising behind the shield. Vaughan smiles at us all.

  ‘I’m aware that almost everyone here is dazzlingly clever, but for the sake of the athletes amongst us, I’ve kept the log-in process simple.’

  Rick mock-laughs, and swears under his breath. Vaughan is not winning himself many friends from that particular demographic.

  ‘First time you log in, it must be from a laptop. All you need to do is this.’ Vaughan talks as if to a toddler, and moves the cursor until it is centred on the eye of the phoenix. ‘Left click, whilst holding down Control and K, I, L simultaneously, like so.’

  ‘Oh yeah – like how many fingers do we need to do that, eh?’ Rick scoffs.

  ‘You do need two free hands, so you’ll have to take one out of your pants,’ Vaughan says, seriously. Rick glares at him. It’s true he has a full-on pocket billiards habit. The girls – and Alex and Carl – reward Vaughan with a laugh.

  Rick points at the screen. ‘And nothing has happened. Uh-oh, broken.’

  ‘I’d forgive you for thinking so, Rick,’ Vaughan says. ‘But guess what? You have to press the buttons again! Input that key combo twice in more than five seconds, and less than ten. So just one-crocodile, two-crocodile up to six, press again, and you’re in. Simple . . . provided you can count that high.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Rick says. ‘Tell another one, I’m wetting myself.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Vaughan looks at him, concerned. ‘How unfortunate for you.’ He presses the keys, his eyes on Rick all the time, and the screen with the William Blake picture comes up again. ‘And here we are. Now click on the owl, and when the password box pops up, enter “Neanderthal Ricky”—’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Rick yells.

  ‘Ah, so astute.’ Vaughan grins at him. ‘I am. Enter “Live2playPlay2live” in the box.’ He grabs Marcia’s pad and pen, tears off a piece of paper, and writes the password down. ‘Memorize this. Do not copy down. This note will self-destruct in ten seconds.’ He displays it as we all read and commit to memory, and then he crumples the paper, pops it in his mouth, and starts to chew.

  ‘Nutter,’ Rick says.

  Vaughan chews some more, and some more, finally swallows, licks his lips and hits Return. A second box pops up. ‘Now, it’ll ask you to create a profile. Once everyone has done that, I’ll Easter egg a prompt box on the school home page for easy access.’

  ‘Easter egg?’ Rick snarls. ‘What are you, a fluffy bunny?’

  ‘He means he’ll hide it, Rick.’ Tesha says, scornfully. ‘Do you know nothing?’

  ‘Not everybody here speaks nerd.’ Rick shoots back.

  ‘Thanks for proving my previous point.’ Vaughan smiles at him, sympathetically. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll all be told how to find it. Then you’ll be able to access the network from any laptop, tablet, whatever.’ He types, quickly, and hits Return. ‘And we’re off!’ The page with the skull flashes up again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Crypt.’ Vaughan smiles at it, lovingly.

  ‘Everyone – even the recently deceased,’ he nods at Cynthia and Becky, ‘everyone gets to create a profile. And here’s the thing; it’s up to you to decide if you want to give your real name. I suggest we all go incognito. More mystery that way, no?’ Vaughan looks out at his rapt audience. ‘Once you’ve registered and created your own username and password, this little darling works like your common or garden social network. Here’s the noticeboard, where all the official things get posted by Alex, or Marcia or me, and then here’s a rolling wall with everyone else’s posts. You can post text, pictures, photos even.’ He smiles at us. ‘Not that anyone’s got their phones, presumably. But if you’re a traditionalist with an actual camera, go crazy.’

  ‘What if someone sees this page when you’re looking at it?’ Anvi asks. ‘It seems really risky.’

  ‘Well, you’ll obviously do your level best to prevent that from happening,’ Vaughan says. ‘We all have our designated World Wide Web time, so a teacher or non-player is not necessarily going to think anything is amiss if they catch a glimpse of the page. But if you’re completely inactive on your machine for sixty seconds – no browsing, typing, scrolling – Crypt will redirect to the school home page. Emergency? Then hit Escape or End, and it’s an instant Kill Switch back to Umfraville Central.’

  ‘Tell us about the messaging,’ Tesha says. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Thank you for asking.’ Vaughan clicks on a link and a box appears at the bottom of the screen. ‘This is your normal Umfraville intranet IM box. Crypt just cuckoos into this box, it drops your Killer IMs in here, both public and private messages.’ He looks at us. ‘Only difference is, your public Killer messages are also available to view on Crypt, as part of your newsfeed. Got it? This way, when you’re logged into Crypt, you can be working on something totally legit and still have one eye on the Game.’

  ‘You’ve really thought of everything,’ Rick snarks.

  ‘Nice of you to notice,’ Vaughan says.

  ‘Tell them about the tracking,’ Alex says quietly.

  ‘Ooh, I will!’ Vaughan claps his hands. ‘Okes, folks – so if you click on this little map icon, you can see which users are online at which locations.’

  He clicks, and a map of the isle of Skola pops up. There are a couple of giggles. It’s been designed in a blocky, pseudo-medieval style, very Minecraft. There are even little people walking around, clutching books.

  ‘So cute!’ says Whitney, beaming at Vaughan. ‘And really clever. You built this all yourself?’

  Vaughan nods, trying to look cool, but I know him well enough to guess that he’s bursting with happiness.

  The map is fun. There’s Main House, and then the various satellite buildings – the boys’ dorm house, the studios, classrooms and laboratories, the library quad and studies, the theatre, sports centre and s
taff quarters – and then the pool, playing fields and amphitheatre.

  ‘You can zoom in and out,’ Vaughan shows us. I lean in, and see the caves marked, and the causeway to the mainland. Vaughan has clearly spent time exploring the island – when did he have the chance? Every beach and wood is depicted, and the fields to the north of the island have little cube sheep and cows in them.

  ‘Tracking. How does it work? Well . . .’ Vaughan clears his throat. ‘As we are all painfully aware, there are only four reliable locations you can get on to the Umfraville intranet with Wi-Fi: the quad, the computer science lab and nearby classrooms, Marcia’s newspaper office, and now here in the caves. But just for the extra frisson,’ Vaughan’s eyes light up, ‘on this map, I’ve included every work station in the school.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ I say.

  ‘Meaning . . .’ Vaughan’s eyes are twinkling in the candle light. ‘Any hardwired machine that is connected to the school intranet is also fair game, potentially. The PC in Ezra’s study, for example, or Mr Flynn’s Mac in his cottage,’ he winks at me, ‘if you can access any of those to spice things up a little, by all means, do. You’ll show up on the map as a little red skull, tagged with your username, and we’ll all know where you are.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Martin says, shaking his dark, spiky head. ‘Why would we want tracking, anyway?’

  ‘Because we get to know who is where, and when,’ Marcia answers for Vaughan. ‘If you know users A, B and C were online in the library at the time of a Killing in the ballroom, you could potentially guess who those users are and eliminate them from your suspect list.’

  ‘That’s only the beginning,’ Vaughan says, then nods to Alex. ‘Our Grand Master has made the decision not to activate tracking now, but when he does . . .’ Vaughan lets out a low whistle. ‘Hold on to your hats . . .’

  ‘OK,’ Alex slaps the table. ‘Everyone, you have twenty-four hours to log on and create your profile. Then look out for the first post from me.’

  He stands up, and reaches for the velvet bag on the table. ‘Rick, kill the genny. It’s time for our main event. We need to vote.’ He walks into the alcove and pulls back the curtain. There’s an audible gasp from us apprentices as we see the altar for the first time. It’s bigger than I expected; a dark, wooden central pillar holds multilevel shelves, staggered at random, like branches of a tree. Each shelf is lit with votive candles and is laden with photographs and trinkets from Games past. There are curly-cornered pictures of old Guild members: kids in masks with wicked smiles on their faces. There’s a pewter goblet, its rim crusted with something terrible, a school tie fashioned into a hangman’s noose and a shiny, black ‘bomb’ with a fuse sticking out of it. The yellow skull is on the uppermost shelf, and around it are piles of bracelets, cut from the wrists of poor victims long ago.

  Alex empties slips of paper from the velvet bag into a big brassy bowl at the altar and turns round to us. ‘When it is your turn, take a slip, write a name and place it in the velvet bag. If you don’t know who the Killer is, write anything – Elvis, Mickey Mouse – but write something. If you know who the Killer is, write his or her name down. But be very sure, because if you guess wrong, you’re out of the Game.’

  We take our turn, in order of when we were harvested. I’m last. I get to watch everyone walk into the alcove, kneel and scribble something. Some people are really quick, some ridiculously slow. Finally, it’s my go. I kneel on the dark cushion placed on the cold, sandy floor, and take a slip of paper. I reach for the Pen of Doom – an oversized wooden stick with skulls carved into it. It is heavy and unbalanced in my hand, and as I clutch the end my hands are slippery with cold sweat. I feel everyone’s eyes on my back. Do I know who the Killer is?

  I do not.

  I write: Santa Claus

  After I’ve scribbled it, I pause, mainly because I wish I could think of something wittier. But that’s it. I fold the slip once, twice, three times.

  I place the slip in the bag. It’s half-open, with a few of the other pieces of paper visible. I try to make out writing, but everyone has been thorough with their origami.

  Alex is standing, waiting for me to finish as I exit the alcove.

  ‘I’ll read the votes,’ he announces to all, then steps inside the alcove, and pulls a curtain across.

  We watch the curtain, and listen. The sound of the sea in the background is very eerie; not so much waves hitting the shore, more a kind of low rumble, echoing through the caves. I strain my ears. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I believe I can hear the sound of paper against paper, Alex unfolding, examining, discarding.

  He laughs, quietly. Clearly somebody’s suggestion was wittier than mine. A minute later, there’s another low guffaw. Then nothing. We wait. And wait some more. Then it gets a little ridiculous. Alex is taking more time to read everything than we took to write it all in the first place. Has he fallen asleep? Gone missing down a rabbit hole? I look at the bottom of the curtain, trying to see some movement of feet, a shadow, something.

  Suddenly the curtain is drawn back, and I stifle a scream.

  A cloaked figure, wearing a mask, holding a flaming bowl of fire in front of him.

  ‘Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!’ Alex has his ceremonial voice on again. It’s actually quite funny, but we apprentices jump a mile. The others get to smirk at us.

  Alex lowers the bowl to the ground, then scoops up a pile of sand, extinguishing the flames. He stands, cloak and mask still in place. He extends his arms to his audience.

  ‘There were no correct votes cast at this Summoning,’ he booms. ‘But I did appreciate “Killer Kardashian”, and “Your mum”.’

  There’s laughter, and Alex unmasks, de-robes and chucks his stuff down on the table.

  ‘The Killer lives to Kill again. And the rest of you are playing it safe, so far. Class adjourned!’ he says, normal voice back now. ‘Profile up, and I’ll see you in cyberspace.’

  We leave, gradually, on the lookout for any non-Guild who might spot us. Vaughan is one of the first to dash out; I’m slightly disappointed, I wanted to congratulate him on joining us, make up for my half-arsed reaction when he told me at the pool. I’m not the only female whose hope is blighted; Whitney and Emily in particular look grumpy.

  I linger until Daniel has gone, until only Alex and Carl are left, and then I get the heck out. I get halfway up the cliff path, and I can’t see a single soul around me, Guild or otherwise. The light is fading. I put my hands in my pockets, and draw out my keyring. Sometimes it gives me courage to hold my study key in my hand, like a dagger. But it’s not there. I stare at the keyring, as if I’m suddenly going to locate the key on the ring. My two small gym locker keys are there, but no study key. Damn. I’ve been meaning to replace the fob for a while now; it’s not the first time the catch has come undone. Did the key come off in the cave when all that stuff dropped out of my pocket? Damn and double damn. It’s nearly dark now. Marcia has a key, of course, but she’s probably going to be more difficult to find than my key. Nothing for it. I retrace my steps, wishing I’d brought a torch to help in the twilight.

  By the time I reach the caves, all is in darkness, and the salty air is muzzled by the smoke of recently blown out candles. I didn’t pass Alex and Carl on the cliff path, where can they have gone? Maybe there’s another route that I don’t know about, but it’s slightly spooky that they somehow slipped by me.

  There’s dim light in the outer chamber, but the inner cave is completely dark and silent. If it was gloomy outside, it’s pitch black in here. Panic begins, like a griping feeling in my chest. I want to get my key, and get out. I feel my way along the wall past the genny, and once in the Place Most Holy, the only way to proceed is to get on my hands and knees and crawl until I get to where I was sitting. I find what I think is the right crate, and feel in the sand. Metal, a jagged edge. There it is! Muttering a prayer of thanks, I turn and make for the exit to the first cave, where I can stand up and use the wall to get
out.

  And then I hear it. A banshee, keening desperately in the distance. I freeze, hands against the wall behind me.

  The sound comes again – not a cry, or a moan, but more like a low, hopeless wail. I breathe. Come on, Cate, think logically. Is that a seal? There are sometimes grey seals on the rocks around here; they make ridiculously spooky noises. And then those stupid seabirds. Maybe it’s one of them?

  And again.

  No, this is human, live, sad human. I gingerly edge along the wall towards the light of outside, and the noise gets louder. Oh, crap. It’s here, in the caves somewhere, back in another passageway or chamber, somewhere I’ve yet to discover – inside. I stop again, and listen closer. There are sobs, and snuffles, and the low, desperate wailing.

  It’s Vaughan.

  I recognize that cry. Because crying, like laughter, doesn’t really ever change. The voice gets deeper, older, but the cry is the same. I heard it when he fell off a wall and scraped his arm when he was seven. I heard it in my head when I left that day in my dad’s ridiculous sports car.

  I think about going to him, somewhere back there in the darkness. Why is he crying? Did he not just get everything he wanted? To be part of the Game? To launch Crypt, and wow us all? I move off the wall in the direction of the sobs.

  Then they stop. I stand still. Did he hear me coming?

  I listen, hard, and wait. All I can hear is the sea. I take a step in the direction that the sobs were coming from, but something stops me again. A chill sweeps through me. Was that really Vaughan? I begin to doubt. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I want to call out, but suddenly I don’t want the thing that was making those noises to know where I am. My breathing sounds horribly loud, and I’m sure that whoever or whatever is crouching in the darkness knows exactly where I am. Maybe it’s the Killer. Maybe he or she saw me come back in here, and is tempting me back into the cave to finish me off, like a siren in the waves. Maybe I only imagined it sounded like Vaughan, because he’s on my mind constantly at the moment.