“We’ll maybe get to that, but answer me first: Are you good at games, you bet?”
“I’m okay,” replied Michael.
“Don’t lie, now.”
“I’m . . . very good.”
“We’ll see, won’t we? Now, as to why are ya here? Last night, I could’ve put a bullet in ya. I could have left your ass behind. But I dragged you outta Hell, ’cause you and me still had business.”
“What bus—”
“So here’s the rules,” interrupted Jopek. “The captain asks questions. The kid answers. If you lie, it’s a strike. White lies, half lies, fibs—strike, strike. Three strikes and we find out what that space suit looks like with brains on the front plate and oh, Ramboy, you are in trouble, you know that?”
Jopek’s eyes glittered.
“Question number uno: What’s your favorite color?”
Michael tried to calm his thunder-some heart. “Purple.”
“Gay, a little bit. Two plus two?”
Michael answered.
“Where are ya right now?”
“I don’t know,” said Michael.
“No idea? That scare ya?”
“Yeah, but I’ll live.”
“That’s your opinion, I guess,” said Jopek. “So where’s ‘Bub’ Faris?”
Without even thinking, Michael heard himself reply, “Safe.”
Jopek put a dumbstruck hand against his own cheek. “And how,” he said, “would you know that?”
Michael breathed deeply—still scared, still bewildered. But for just a second, he felt his brain stretching, searching, and holy crap, did that feel good right now. “Because I think you want something from me.”
“What the hell could you help me with, you reckon?”
“‘Business.’ But that’s the only reason I’m still alive. And I wouldn’t do anything for you if Patrick was hurt.”
Jopek’s mouth slanted into something like disgust. “’Cause you’re such good brudders.
“Here’s a easy one: you never saw no soldiers. Did you?”
Michael hesitated. Then shook his head.
“And you don’t know nothin’ but nothin’ about other units.”
Had Jopek come back because he wanted Michael’s “information” on where other soldiers were?
“I ask the questions,” Jopek said, seeing the thought on Michael’s face.
“No.” Michael shook his head. “I never saw any soldiers. It was just me and Bub.”
Jopek asked, “Then how did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Coulda swore I said I ask the questions! Coulda swore it!” Jopek said, giving a vicious, bitter laugh. “How did you live in this world, all the way to Safe Zone?” Jopek asked.
Why is he asking this? “I don’t know.”
“Well. Hey. Strike one.”
Michael’s eyes flicked to the gun, any yes-yes feeling he’d had falling away. “I just . . . did,” he said. “I kept us pretty safe. If somebody was just watching us, they might have gotten worried. But just because they wouldn’t have known.”
“Known what?”
“What I could do.”
“Which is?”
Michael hesitated again. He saw himself through Jopek’s eyes right then: trapped; outplayed; the loser.
“I thought—think—I could just breathe and like, understand things. Almost feel what was coming.”
“Is that how you knew the answer about where your screwed-up brother is?”
It felt like pushing on a bruise. But Michael nodded.
“And why do you play The Game?” said the captain.
“To help pass the ti—”
“Strike two!”
—Jopek’s hand, huge and meaty on the pistol—
“—to protect him! To protect him.”
“What from? Boo-boos? Diarrhea?”
“No—look, you know everything, you know all this, why do you want me to say it?” Michael blurted.
“And what do you think would happen at The End of The Game?” asked Jopek, ignoring Michael’s question . . . and smiling.
What the hell? Had Jopek returned because he wanted to understand The Game?
“We win,” Michael said falteringly. “There’s a party.”
“Search party?”
It was as if Jopek was forcing him to read his journal aloud. “An . . . Ultraman party.”
“Except it didn’t work that way, huh?”
“No.”
“Why?” Jopek said. He looked eager.
I can’t lie.
Michael said: “Because of you.”
“Now here we go!” crowed Jopek suddenly. “Speak it. Say that shit, Michael!”
He leaned forward: his stool was about to tip, supported by only thin blades of wood.
He’s pissed.
A whisper of thought, coming from the back of Michael’s brain: . . . keep making him pissed . . . .
What? NO!
“SPEAK IT—”
“We all would’ve been safer without you, Jopek.”
What are you doing? Look at him! He’s not just pissed, he’s freaking deadly right now!
Good!
What? Why?!
Because you’re right about Jopek: he’s just like Ron. Jopek isn’t a genius; he just got lucky last night. Piss him off, like you did with Ron, and Jopek will get sloppy, yes-yes.
Michael did not totally trust yes-yes, but he could not help but think, Maybe this is The End—Beat Jopek, beat the final Boss, and I can save everyone.
Jopek’s composure shattered. “You think you’re so smart?”
Michael made himself smile. “You don’t want me to answer that.”