was aiming a pistol, the policeman’s pistol Michael had gotten in the Walgreens, at his stomach. Its barrel looked large enough to shoot the moon.
A distant thought: doesn’t work like this.
“Bub,” Michael said. “What are you doing?”
“Tricked you,” replied Patrick. “You’re the Betrayer, I know it,” said Patrick. He swung his head, saying it singsong. “Jopek, the Game Master told me.”
Terror.
“Pffft.” Michael licked his lips. “What’re you talking about, newb, Jopek isn’t the Game Ma—”
“He told me you’d say that!” Patrick laughed.
Michael held Patrick’s stare, and then lunged toward the burner.
“STOP!” Patrick shouted.
“—STOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPP—”
Jopek and Patrick. In the Hummer. Talking.
“Patrick . . . Bub, listen to me, that gun can really hurt people. I need you to put it down.”
“The Game Master said it can’t hurt people real bad,” Patrick said, confused.
“Jopek’s lying.”
“You said the Game Master is always right.”
Oh God, no.
Footsteps echoed to Michael’s ears, from the Capitol steps.
Tell Patrick the truth! There is no Game!
And while Patrick stared behind his gun, Michael stayed silent.
Jopek had known. Because Holly had told him about The Game and the reason it existed, Jopek had known Michael would never tell Patrick the truth—that he could never.
And now Jopek, saying, “’Scuse us, fella,” captured him in a headlock, and pulled Michael from the basket.
“Let me go!” Michael said, twisting uselessly.
“Ahhhh, I don’t feel like it.”
From some black well inside Michael: Bite! BITE him!
And horror filled him. What did that mean?
The fences on all sides of them surged and bowed with Bellows. A musical twang of ripping razor wire. The roar of a thousand dead throats. One of the two remaining layers of chain link had given way. Bellows swelled across the overturned fence, a tsunami of flesh.
“Look at this Betrayer!” Jopek called, laughing, dragging Michael up the marble steps into the Capitol as Patrick climbed out of the basket. “I think these ol’ Bellows know the Betrayer’s here, don’t you, Bub? I think the Bellows want some action! What do you think we should do with Michael? Throw him to the Bellows, maybe? They’re kinda his new brothers, wouldn’t ya say?”
Michael looked at Patrick, and he remembered telling Patrick that they had to stop the Betrayer, “No matter what it takes.”
N-no. Patrick won’t hurt me. He doesn’t know if things are safe, but he won’t take a chance.
And that seemed like it was true, judging from the indecision on Patrick’s face.
They reached the rotunda. “Captain, what is wrong with you, stop choking him like that!” Holly shouted.
“Awww, he’s okay,” said Jopek.
“Ho—Holly—help!” Michael’s croak seemed to blend with the chorus of the dead outside.
“Michael, listen to me,” Holly said urgently, “you’re going to be okay. I told the captain, we’re going to keep you safe, right here.”
“No! Please! Have to get to—to Virginia!”
“The soldiers will be here anytime now. They’ll take us, soon. You’ll be fine.” She added, “I think.”
Now! Tell them! If you do not tell them, there won’t ever be another now!
“I lied, Holly! There are no other soldiers coming for us, we have to leave!”
“No. No. Michael. Please, don’t make it worse for yourself,” Holly said, her eyes pain and pity.
“Holly, please, oh God, I made it up! I always make everything up!”
“See, bud?” said Jopek. “Now he admits it, don’t he?”
“Michael,” said Holly, and began to cry. “Michael, stop lying.”
“BUB! THERE—IS—NO—GA—”
But he was already at the door of the Senate.
It was open, looked like the mouth of a cave.
Going to run, Michael saw. Jopek’s going to throw me in, but I’ll be smooth, I’ll land and Jopek will be surprised and I’ll grab his gun.
The best Michael did when Jopek launched him, however, was not break any bones.
He stumbled, knocking against congress seats as he fell.
And in the moment before Jopek locked him in alone, Michael looked at his brother, in the lit doorway. His brother, who always sensed when something was the matter, even when Michael wished he didn’t.
His brother, next to the pistol tucked unguarded in Jopek’s belt.
Patrick looked deep into Michael, and the understanding came almost immediately, with a look of surprise and pity for his frightened big brother.
“Michael?” said Patrick.
“Y-yeah?”
“It’s just a Game, it’s just a Game,” Patrick replied, like it was a prayer. “Just a Game, just a Game . . .”
The door swung shut.
Losing!
Lost!
I am lost!
Michael slammed his shoulder into the door, but it was, of course, strong wood. He tried to focus on anything. He punched himself in the thigh, hard. His mind ran: Get Patrick. Get away. Get a plan!