The Kill Factor, page 4
More screens with arrows had led them up twenty floors, until they arrived, sweating and gasping, onto the top deck, where they sat now, around the enormous pool.
Five of the contestants had dropped their bags and cases and jumped straight into the heated pool, but most just sat around, waiting for something to happen.
“It’s pretty simple,” Never was saying. “There’s supposed to be fifty of us competing in this stupid thing, but only forty-seven have boarded the ship.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right,” the boy with the gap in his teeth said.
“Yeah, I know I’m right!”
“Did you know that llamas and alpacas can die of loneliness? They have to be kept in herds or at least in pairs,” a black-haired girl with the number 38 burned into her hand was saying to no one in particular. This was the eighth fact she had shared with the group so far.
“They ran,” came the lethargic voice of the skinny boy in the backpack. He didn’t look at Never as he spoke, just sat at the edge of the pool, his feet swishing lightly through the water.
“What?” Never asked from her deck chair.
“Numbers 48, 49, and 50,” boy number 1 replied. “They ran. They made a break for it.”
“Hey now, why do you seem to have an answer for everything?” Never asked.
“It’s just obvious,” boy number 1 replied, shrugging. He was looking into the water, his medium-length hair hanging in his eyes.
“What’s your name, skinny?” Never asked. “And don’t give me that lone wolf, too cool for friends nonsense neither.”
The boy looked up, seemed to contemplate, and then answered. “It’s Kodiak, but people just call me Kodi.”
“All right, Kodi, if it’s so obvious that the other three made a break for it, what are the producers going to do about it?”
“They’ll have contestants on standby,” Kodi replied. “They’ll have seen this coming.”
“Oh, thank you, great and mystical Kodiak!” Never replied, and then lay back on her deck chair. “This would be great if I had an iced tea.”
There were heaters all around them that combated the cold of the December morning, and steam rose up endlessly from the warm pool.
“Did you know that you have a better chance of surviving a nuclear blast if you’re wearing white?” 38 said, looking around at the contestants. “It’s because white doesn’t absorb as much—”
“So, what happens now?” number 31, a short teen with a barely visible mustache and stern features asked, interrupting the fact girl, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
“Ask Kodi,” Never said without looking up.
Tiger swam to the edge of the pool and rubbed water out of her eyes. “Emerson, Never, come in. It’s so nice in the water!”
“Nah,” Never said. “I can’t swim. I’m not drowning before the show even begins.”
“What about you, Em?” Tiger asked.
“Maybe later.” Emerson looked once more at the number on the inside of the young girl’s wrist: 11. She had been one of the first through the doors, but one of the last to the twentieth floor. She had been so out of breath climbing those stairs that she’d had to take a break after every two floors.
“All right,” Tiger said, and was just about to swim another lap when the sound of the elevator whirring into life caused everyone to stop what they were doing. Tiger grabbed her glasses from the edge of the pool and put them on, magnifying her blue eyes.
Those who were in the pool got out, the young people who had been lying on recliners got up, and the Retribution Island contestants gathered together as the numbers above the elevator door lit up and went out one by one.
Finally, the doors slid open, and the Producer stepped out. His thick white hair somehow seemed to make him look young. His small round glasses caught the reflection of the early morning sun, making his eye sockets look empty and skeletal, but as he stepped forward, that kindly face came into view, and he smiled at the group of young people before him.
“Contestants,” the Producer said. “It’s so great to see you all again. Soon we will embark on the journey of a lifetime. Everything on this ship is free to you. The food, the drinks, the entertainment. Whatever you want, we will endeavor to provide. You are my guests.”
There was a pause, and a tall skinny boy raised a hand, the number 22 burned into it. The Producer looked at him, and the smile widened.
“My boy, I hope you don’t mind, but I won’t be taking questions. There’s just no time. So much to do! Right now, I’m here to give you your room numbers, and to tell you that we will be meeting in the Celebrity Theater one hour after we set sail. There you will learn everything you need to know about the competition, and you can ask your questions. Until then, if you need anything, just ask the ship. Her name is Calypso. For example: Calypso, may our guests have their room keys, please?”
Dozens of tiny drones appeared from seemingly nowhere, scanning the faces of the contestants, and dropping key cards into their hands.
Emerson held out her hands and caught the small black rectangle of plastic that looked like an old-fashioned credit card. She read the number on it: 10/120.
Seconds later, the drones disappeared back into their hiding places.
“That will be all,” the Producer said. “See you in the theater an hour after we set sail. And thank you once again for joining me on this journey.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, stepped back into the elevator, and descended into the depths of the ship.
There was a stunned silence among the forty-seven on the top deck. Finally, Never spoke. “Calypso, gin and tonic, now!”
A single drone zipped up to Never, scanned her face, and then spoke. “Unfortunately, biometric data shows that you are not of legal age to consume alcoholic beverages. Can I get you anything else?”
“Damn it,” Never hissed. “Yeah, fine, I’ll have an iced tea.”
The drone shot away to make the drink. The rest of the crowd looked at their key cards, looked at one another, shuffled their feet. No one felt like swimming anymore. The drone returned with Never’s drink, and slowly, the contestants dispersed, making their ways to their rooms.
Emerson didn’t go straight into her room. Instead, she decided to wander the enormous floating village that was the Calypso.
It was like a ghost town.
Kester had once told her about a trading ship called the Mary Celeste that had set sail in the 1800s with a full crew and cargo, only to be found a month later with no one on board, no signs of damage to the ship, no signs of violence, no cargo missing. It was as though everyone on board had just disappeared into thin air. That’s what it felt like to Emerson, an eerie vacant ship that looked too big and too empty without people milling around.
The thought of her brother sent a wave of guilt through her. She had told him that she wouldn’t leave without speaking to him first, but she’d had to. There was only one real choice, and that was to do what was best for her family.
Emerson reached into her back pocket and removed the bottle lid that Kester had handed to her. No. No bottles, no lids. I’m on your side no matter what. That was what he had said—was it still true? Would he forgive her for leaving without saying goodbye? Would he understand?
She put the lid back in her pocket and walked slowly, pushing thoughts of Kester from her mind, her footsteps echoing on the pristine, polished floor. She passed a jewelry store with a humanoid automaton behind the counter standing perfectly still, a smile frozen on her face, waiting for a customer. Next was an Old West–themed restaurant with more robot servers (this time dressed in Stetson hats and spurs), standing as if frozen in time, with lifeless grins on their lips and motionless stares. Emerson passed a souvenir shop, a minimarket, a bar, and a children’s play area, each one with androids standing like waxworks inside. As she walked by, it felt to Emerson as though the robotic staff were watching her, waiting for her to turn her back so that their grins could change into grimaces and they could once again dream of mutiny.
She laughed at the idea, and for a second she forgot about her situation, wanting to tell Kester all about her strange fantasy of rebellious automatons. And then it hit her all over again. If he was wrong, then she would never see Kester, never talk to him again.
Unless I win, she thought, and laughed again. She couldn’t win. The Producer had told her enough in the interrogation room to let her know that she could not win this competition. The Producer had said, You will take part in various games. The difficulty of these games is determined by how many followers you earn throughout the show … Emerson knew she would not gain the most followers. She had tried, a long time ago, to make content, start a channel, build a brand, and it had gone horribly wrong. The comments mocked her, no one followed her; she was ridiculed and embarrassed. You needed certain things to make it as an influencer: charisma, intelligence, good looks, talent. Maybe you didn’t need all those things at once, but you needed at least some combination of them, and Emerson had learned that she had none of them.
Just win as many competitions as you can to avoid the public vote, she told herself. Hang in for as long as you can, gain as many followers as possible, then transfer your weekly credits to Kester.
A tall, glamorous-looking girl with short violet hair was walking toward her. A Topsider with flawless skin and dazzling eyes. Emerson wondered what she had done to wind up on this cruise of the damned.
Two camera drones followed the tall girl as she walked. Her hands moved theatrically as she recorded her video. She would laugh periodically, as though she had heard the funniest joke in the world.
“Hey, look,” the purple-haired girl said, pointing to Emerson. “Another handpicked guest on the exclusive Calypso!”
She walked over to Emerson and put an arm around her shoulder. “Hey, friend! What do you think of this experience so far, huh?”
Emerson shrugged the girl’s arm off her shoulder and walked away.
“Cut!” the Topsider called. “Hey, you!”
There was no friendliness in her voice anymore, no more charm or magnetism.
“What?” Emerson replied, not turning around.
“What’s your problem? You ruined my shot!”
Emerson spun around and walked back toward the girl. “Your shot? Your shot? Who cares about your stupid video? We’re about to be shipped off to God knows where to take part in some stupid game and we’re all going to jail for the rest of our lives.”
The tall girl looked at Emerson for a long time, and a smile slowly spread across her lips. “So that’s your angle, huh? Poor little victim? It’s a good one, I’ll admit that.”
“What are you talking about?” Emerson asked.
“Hey, it’s a solid plan. I’ve seen it work hundreds of times, but you might want to work on your passion, really try to sell it when the cameras are rolling, okay?”
“Sell it?” Emerson repeated.
“Yeah, and think about showing a little skin, you know? If you want eyes on your video, you got to think about showing some skin.”
“I … I …” Emerson couldn’t get her words around her bewilderment.
“What’s your number?” asked the Topsider, holding up her arm to show Emerson. “I’m 10, a good memorable number.”
Emerson was still so surprised by the turn of the conversation that she couldn’t speak. Number 10 grabbed Emerson’s wrist and looked at her number. “16? Not a bad number. Not as good as 10, though.”
The Topsider seemed to realize that she was touching a Burrower, and dropped Emerson’s hand like it was something foul. She yelled action, and began walking and talking with that peppy, vivacious personality once again.
A few seconds later, number 10 was gone, and Emerson was alone in the enormous, pristine mall once more.
An hour passed and the ship still hadn’t moved from the dock.
Emerson had explored only one floor of the impossibly large boat before deciding she would find her room. She took the key card out of her pocket and looked at the number once again: 10/120.
It took another twenty minutes of going up and down in an elevator to figure out that her room was on deck 10.
The corridors that housed the cabins were very different from the grand halls and malls of the ship, different from the top deck where cafés and restaurants surrounded pools and Jacuzzis. These were disorienting in their uniformity. The carpet was a repeating pattern that made Emerson nauseous if she looked at it for too long. Each door was identical except the number emblazoned in brass. There were fire alarms on the walls between every twenty doors, and a soulless painting on the wall between every thirteen doors. After a while, it felt as though you weren’t moving at all; it was only the floor beneath your feet that was rolling along like a treadmill.
Emerson shook off the sensation of vertigo, and finally found herself outside room 10/120. She slid the key card into the slot until the light went green, and opened the door.
The cabin was small but bright. It had two beds, a desk, a bathroom, and a balcony, but Emerson didn’t have time to take any of this in, as a silver-haired Topsider had leaped from one of the beds and was striding over to her.
“No!” the Topsider said, pointing right into Emerson’s face. “No!”
“Uh … no what?” Emerson replied, taken aback by the girl’s actions.
“No! I’m not sharing a room with a Burrower!”
“Excuse me?” Emerson said, her eyes locking on to the arrogant glare of the girl in front of her.
“You heard me, 16,” the Topsider said, glancing at Emerson’s number. “I am not sharing a room with you.”
Emerson looked at the girl’s wrist. “Well, 33, I’m not delighted about sharing a room with you, but here we are.”
“I’m going to speak to whoever is in charge, that Producer guy. He’ll sort this out. Don’t steal my stuff while I’m out, little rat.”
And with that, the tall, silver-haired girl with the number 33 lasered into her wrist was gone, slamming the cabin door behind her.
Emerson clenched her fists, and without thinking, walked over to the girl’s bed, grabbed her suitcase, carried it over to the balcony, and hurled it over the edge into the murky water of the dock below.
“Oops,” she said, and then shrugged.
Just then, the entire boat rumbled and shook into life. The electric engines were warming up, and for ten seconds they shrieked and groaned until they found their groove, falling into a background hum that would soon be carrying them out to sea.
The ten-foot-high doors were open and waiting for the arrival of the contestants.
Emerson had met Never and Tiger on her way down the stairs, and they walked together toward the Celebrity Theater on deck three.
“I have a Pictionary set from 1998,” Tiger was saying, “and a Snakes and Ladders board that’s almost two hundred years old!”
“Amazing,” Never replied with no emotion in her voice.
“What do you think they’re going to tell us in there?” Emerson asked.
“I don’t know,” Never replied. “They’re going to tell us about the show, right?”
“Yeah, but … do you think Kodi was right? Do you think it’s going to be about more than gaining followers and playing games? Do you think it really is about staying alive?”
“No,” Never replied without hesitation. “They can’t broadcast that or put it online, it’s illegal.”
“Yeah,” Emerson said. “Yeah, you’re right.” But she couldn’t erase that feeling of uncertainty in her stomach. If they were willing to go as far as life imprisonment as a punishment for losing, how much further would they go?
But all thoughts of the games disappeared temporarily from Emerson’s mind as she entered the grand theater. She stopped in the doorway and stared at the impossibly black ceiling with the points of brilliant light that mimicked the stars. She turned slowly to take in the enormousness of it, the flawless red curtain that hung over the stage, the lighting rig that cost more than the home she lived in, the speakers, the …
“Keep moving, 16!” a grumpy voice called from behind her, and her trance was broken. She looked around to see that Never and Tiger were already halfway down the left-side aisle. Emerson ran to catch up.
“This place is huge,” Emerson said, shuffling into a seat next to Tiger.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Tiger mused, glancing around indifferently.
Emerson looked around at the rapidly filling auditorium, listened to the murmur of nervous voices, felt the tension rising up like floodwater.
She watched as two boys of about fourteen, who had seemingly become best friends in the last few hours, clambered over the seats throwing balled-up pieces of paper at each other. She saw three girls sitting together whose feet didn’t touch the ground, swinging their legs in unison. At the front, nearest the stage, the fourteen or fifteen Topsiders had all gathered together as though their perceived social status acted as a magnet. And finally, her eyes fell upon Kodi, who sat alone near the wall on the far side. He was leaning back, his head resting on the chairback, staring up at the artificial constellations above him. He was effortlessly striking, with slightly pointed features and narrow eyes. He had a tiny scar in the left corner of his mouth. As usual, he seemed to be in deep thought about something.
“You got a crush already, 16?” Never said, leaning over to prod Emerson in the side.
“What? No! Of course not.”
Tiger gasped and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Emerson loves Kodi!”
“Shut up!” Emerson hissed, “I do not love Kodi. He’s weird and intense and …”
“Beautiful?” Never added.
“No.”
“Are you saying he’s not beautiful? Because, Em, he is beautiful!”
“I mean … I don’t know. I haven’t exactly been thinking about boys. In case you’d forgotten, we’re most likely being shipped off to prison for the rest of our lives.”
There was a long pause before Tiger added, “He is sort of pretty, though, right?”
