Grabbing Patrick’s hand again, squirming bones in mitten, yes-yes, and out the window, quite calmly Michael saw shadows that were confused and shouting. The people were twenty yards away, and jogging fast. But, ah, Gamers, that was the thing: they were jogging, and Michael—beginning to smile—Michael was dashing.
The car key went into the car lock like warmed oil.
In video games, in the cut scenes at the ends of missions, it was always this moment that snagged the good guys by the ankle. In video games, it didn’t matter how perfectly you played: you couldn’t go to the next level if the game didn’t want you to. Bad guys could be gaining, and you do something stupid, like drop your key—but Michael’s car door opened perfectly. He lifted Bub into the car, and Michael was about to enter the car, too, to put the insane pursuers in his past. So he did not expect it when there came a flash of yellow, and the Volvo’s windshield finally shattered inward. And beside Michael’s ear, just as he was getting ready to sit, the headrest exploded.
Stuffing flew, white and singed.
Snow wheeled into the car through the place where the windshield had been. Ducked down, stunned, his head on the driver’s seat but his knees on the ground outside the open driver’s door, it took Michael several seconds to fully process what had happened. His brain had been knocked, reeling, to the mat. And the yes-yes was gone.
“Patrick?” he made himself not scream.
Silence.
“Owwww,” said a voice.
His heart iced. “What, what’s wrong?”
“That was so loud.”
“I . . . I know. What a jerk, right?” Michael said. He tried to sound calm—didn’t think he was a success.
Don’t Freak, please. Not now, Bub.
Michael spotted the keys. They’d fallen onto the passenger seat. They were just out of reach—
A second shot exploded the remainder of the headrest.
A metallic click, in front of the car. “Come to me, boy.”
Michael cautiously raised his head, peering over the dashboard. The gunman-priest stood ten feet from the hood, his long barrel aimed at Michael. He ejected his spent shell, which disappeared in the snow, steaming.
He slid the cocking mechanism of his gun forward, chambering a new round. He’s actually going to shoot us.
“Sir, wait, WAIT!”
Wind spun snow between them. The man didn’t say a thing. But his eyes were happy and glittered in his face like beetles.
“Out, boy.” His whisper carried as well as a boom. “If you know what will please your soul: out.”
Not far from the forest’s edge, Bellows blew their dead calls. The last of the search party—mostly older people who couldn’t run as fast—were arriving from the side streets. They began forming a loose ring around the car.
Run, you die. Stay in the car, you die.
“Out.” The wild priest smiled.
“Me and my brother?” asked Michael.
“The child shall be last, thankee.”
What could Michael do but nod?
He pretended to struggle to get to his feet to buy himself half a second. “Bub,” he whispered.
“H-huh?”
I’m going to go outside now, Michael thought, to talk with the man with the gun. Don’t Freak. Please stay here. And if you hear him shoot, don’t look.
“BRB. You just do one thing for me, okay?
“Don’t eat my Flintstone Vitamins, chump, or I swear I’ll punch your butt so hard . . .”
There wasn’t even a giggle from the backseat. Michael stood. And now, more than any other moment since The Game began, he had no idea what he was going to do.
He stepped away from the car and into the center of the unreal nether-zone Main Street.
The gunman-priest kept his weapon on Michael, ruddy face grinning tightly. His long robes twisted and furled, somehow ghostly. His robe and his fingers were stained red.
Michael raised his hands up. So what I’m gonna do is . . . That was a trick that worked, sometimes: starting a thought and letting it finish itself.
But it didn’t work this time.
His stomach crawled. He was surrounded by the crowd that had happily witnessed murder in the church. He half expected the crowd to swarm him, to carry him to the altar.
The crowd watched.
Michael took a step away from the car and nodded to the gunman-priest, who did not nod back.
“Who are you, boy?”
“My name is Michael Faris, sir,” Michael replied carefully, “and I’m just looking for—”
“‘Michael.’ Do you know who the real Michael is? ‘Michael’ is the archangel: God’s warrior. But Michael Faris, you betray God.” The priest cocked his head. “Where do you come