Read The Game for Free Online Page B

hopes that Rob heard her plea concerning the
boy.
* * *
    So where did all these guys come from? Paul shoots another one, this one in the head from fifty yards. His
previous method of shoot and scoot is becoming more difficult.
There’s just too many enemy combatants. Now he’s running and
gunning from one building to the next, barely taking time to rest.
He’s not part of a team, which makes the task of eliminating the
enemy simultaneously difficult and simple. Difficult in that he has
no backup—no comrades to cover him as he ducks from one doorway to
the next—simple because he’s not a part of a team—if it
moves, he shoots.
    Paul pants and holds his side. This game
demands more physical energy than any other he’s ever participated.
A body darkens the window and he shoots this one too.
    He runs. Another injection of adrenaline
courses through his veins. He’s lost in the game. The interactive
quality sucks him in and the outside world has completely faded
away. Right now, it’s all about him, the gun, and his next move to
guarantee his survival. It’s nothing like the game in the arcade
where he stood motionless, relying on the software to determine his
next move. With An Act of War , his only job was to shoot.
This time is different. His surroundings are entirely under his
control. It’s completely up to him to make each decision, to hide
in this building or that, to let the enemy pass by and take them
out from behind, or to step out in front of them and seeing the
surprise widen their eyes as his bullets mow them down.
    He can’t last much longer. He’s sure of it. The
amount of energy he’s expending to maintain survival is steadily
draining his resources, making him slow. He rests more often. He’s
finding it harder to maintain silence when he’s panting and out of
breath.
    “ Hello?”
    Paul holds his breath; cocks his head to the
side. Surely, that wasn’t one of the enemy combatants. The voice
was too close, almost as if it were right next to him.
    “ Can you hear me?”
    Paul whispers, “Who are you?”
    “ Oh, thank, God!”
    Paul closes his eyes. This is getting weird, he
thinks. Now I’m hearing voices in my head.
* * *
    Unable to do anything but watch, Rob can’t
stand being a passenger in his own body. If he could just close his
eyes to the dizzying, confusing actions of his own body, he’d might
just feel better.
    Helpless, his body rushes to a window, thrusts
his gun inside, and sprays the far wall with burning projectiles.
Then he’s running again; round one corner, down an alley, through
one building and into another before settling into a corner to
rest. He pants and clutches his side as if there is a hitch there;
but there’s not. He listens intently to the sound of his breath. He
concentrates on his body.
    He shouldn’t be panting. Neither should he be
clutching his side. He’s not out of breath. There is no pain—by
every outward indication, he should be fine—still running easily
from one building to the next, still jumping through windows,
cutting around this corner or that, or sprinting up and down ramps
between floors. He’s a soldier after all. For years, the military
molded his body—conditioned it to maintain hard physical
activities.
    Yet, he’s out of breath…
    … he’s clutching at his
side.
    Phantom pains, he thinks. I’m not the one
hurting. It’s whoever has control of my body.
    Words float to him, a hazy memory from when he
first realized he was still alive. A woman’s voice, asking him
something—but what? Just when he thinks he remembers, the words
slip away like smoke in the wind. He tries to turn his thoughts
inward. If he is a puppet, then there must be strings, and if there
are strings, then there must be a puppet master controlling
them—controlling him.
    “ Hello?” he says, testing the
theory. Silence greets him.
    Silence! His body has stiffened. He’s holding
his breath as if listening. Excitement floods through
him.
    “ Can you hear