The stock of the rifle slammed down between his shoulder blades. He staggered forward, screamed for half a second in his closed mouth. He looked at Patrick, saw him between the passenger’s and driver’s seats; Patrick gasped. Which was good—Michael wanted Patrick to see that these people were breaking the Rules, even violently. Because in a second I can show you that you’re still safe, Patrick, that even with these people breaking the Rules, The Game is still under control. Just keep watching, Bub.
But Michael suddenly thought: Don’t push Rulon too far! If it goes too far, Patrick will know—
“Oh, you a-hole,” said Michael to the priest.
“The foul-minded boy! The sin-thick boy!” His teeth glowed like yellow tombstones. “Do you know what I believe? I believe you are alone. Why would he send a child?”
Now a teary-voiced man in the crowd shouted, “Yes, Rulon! Yes! Get that one!”
“Wait,” Michael muttered, but the priest had no intention of waiting.
Rulon began to raise his rifle. He looked to the sky.
Feel your blood. Calm down.
“Accept the sacrifice,” the priest intoned, “of the one who spilled Your Chosen’s bloo—”
Michael reached into his pocket and drew the old-school cell phone, powering it on, hitting the number pad, saying into the phone, “They’re about to hurt me, sir!”
And the sound—yes-yes—issued forth from the speaker like a small cannon.
“I order you to stop!” called the Game Master.
Blink.
“Sssssttoooooppp!” wailed the Bellows from the woods.
Rulon squinted down at the silver phone in Michael’s hand, as if at some unholy artifact.
Michael tapped a button. The Game Master’s rich accent barked out even louder from the speakerphone. “Again, I order you to stop!”
“Who is that?” said Rulon.
“Ask him yourself,” replied Michael.
Rulon didn’t.
“These are your orders!” the phone replied, anyway.
“The man in charge,” Michael said. “The master,” he said louder, for Patrick’s sake.
“Lies,” said Rulon. But he sounded uncertain. And Michael felt a thrill of yes-yes, because the crowd wasn’t looking to Rulon. They were looking at the phone.
“No one is our master,” said Rulon calmly to the crowd. “We are our master. Who that man is, I don’t know. When the Lord began purifying, we were left to do His good work. We were left to shepherd the first risen Chosen until His Horsemen come. We were left—”
Michael put the phone to his ear, turned off the speaker. “He doesn’t believe m—”
“Enough!”
“Report back to me, Michael!” said the Game Master.
Someone in the crowd, concerned, said, “Rulon? Who is it?”
Rulon watched the phone.
Michael said into the phone, “I’m here, sir. This man, Rulon, still looks a little trigger happy. Are there reinforcements?”
Hit a button. Speakerphone again: “There are soldiers nearby!”
“Awesome to know,” Michael said, and he began to back toward his station wagon.
Rage and confusion tumbled over Rulon’s face. Rulon lowered the gun, raised it, then put it down permanently.
Beat you. And you can’t believe I can do it. Just like Ron.
See, Bub? We are safe.
His fingers looped the door handle and he nodded toward the crowd, winked, gave a thumbs-up. There was no car alarm this time. Patrick peered up through the gap between the front seats, and Michael had an almost uncontrollable urge to low-five him—to touch him.
“Boy?” Rulon had taken a couple steps toward Michael, and for some reason looked slyly, dangerously pleased.“I have only one question. If the man in charge sent you, what is his name?”
“I—”
The voice on the phone crackled. It could have been static. But it wasn’t. “End of your recording,” a robot voice on the phone said. “Play your phone recording again? Press one to play, press two to delete, press three to record a new—”
How long did it take to close the phone? Too long.
No, thought Michael. Messed it up, I messed it up.
His eyes locked with Rulon’s, electricity leaping between them as the cell phone’s voice recorder cut off—
—and Michael slammed the driver’s door into Rulon’s groin and dived into his car. He threw the gear into DRIVE, hoping to outrun the truth:
The voice on the phone had been Michael’s own, not a phone call but a recording he’d made last night when Patrick was asleep. Because, of course, Michael was the Game Master. And there was no Game.
Michael had made it up.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Had Patrick heard? That was all that mattered.
Please frakking no. Oh please no.
“Bub?”
Michael lay low, out of gun sight, driving the Volvo blindly as the attackers’ faces and arms struck the windows. Hands grabbed in through the empty windshield.