Game Over - By James Patterson Page 0,39

was troubling my friend. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. They used to be his favorite.”

“Krispy Kremes? Whose?”

“The Pleionid. After school he used to disguise himself and ride in on my backpack. We’d stand in line and then we’d buy like three dozen glazed and sneak off to an alley and scarf them down together.”

“You miss him, huh?”

“You know what it’s like to lose somebody close to totally senseless violence, don’t you, Daniel?”

I nodded. “Why did your parents do it, Kildare? Why did they kill the Pleionid? Why do they hunt creatures to extinction?”

Kildare shook his head. “I wish I knew. They weren’t always like this. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they were ever kind to me, but at least they used to look after me. Lately, it’s like I’m just another alien employee.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter now, does it? They’re murderers. Mass murderers.”

“But they’re your parents,” I said. “So you want to give them one last chance. I get it. Do you want to fill me in on your plan? Maybe I can help.”

“You’re helping already. You’re giving me hope, Daniel.” He got up from the bench. “Now let’s go get some donuts, and then we can head over to the GC Tower.”

“No need for the donuts,” said a familiar voice behind us.

Number 7 was standing there holding an open box of Krispy Kremes.

Chapter 49

WHAT CHOICE DID we have? Out of deference to Kildare’s plan—if not to the thousands of innocent humans around us in crowded downtown Tokyo—we fell into step with Kildare’s father and let him lead us the remaining three blocks to the GC Tower.

Number 8 and a ghoulishly grinning gaggle of security guards met us on the sidewalk and escorted us through the mob of frustrated teenage boys who had gathered outside the flagship store, which was, the sign said, CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE EVENT.

“We’re so glad you decided to join us,” said Number 8 as two guards unlocked the doors and escorted us into the lobby. “We’ve been wanting to beta test some new games, and you two are smack in the middle of our target demographic.”

“Yes,” said Number 7, “for instance, we have a new 3-D simulator called Teenage Geek Squad, in which two unpopular boys get caught up in circumstances far beyond their control.”

“Yes,” said Number 8. “And we want you to try out another new title called NTAC, which stands for ‘No-Talent Alien Clowns.’ You get to play two delusional characters who think they’re going to save the world but who inevitably end up getting their butts kicked all over the place.”

“And after that,” said Number 7, “we have a prototype for a high-concept strategy game along the lines of World of Warcraft but involving competing groups of aliens who’ve invaded a planet populated by a species of complete losers and mean to make the most of its abundant resources.”

“Or, if you’d like,” said Number 8, “we have another title based on a superhero-comic concept called Alien Hunter: The Dim Knave. It’s about a kid who goes out thinking he has amazing superpowers only to gradually realize they’re all in his head and that while he thinks he’s been fighting evil, he’s really only been fighting progress. And he has a laugh-riot sidekick, a kid so delusional he thinks that his own parents are his worst enemies.”

“Sounds hilarious,” said Kildare, deadpan.

“It is,” said Number 7. “Although, if you start to feel overstimulated, we can try some off-line games too. Things like this—”

And, with that, steel shutters dropped across the store windows, and the two security guards pulled out their sidearms and began blasting away. At me.

Chapter 50

“MOM, DAD! DON’T!” screamed Kildare. “He’s not going to hurt you!”

If this was all part of Kildare’s plan, he sure was a good actor. I leaped over a console of driving simulators and tried to find some cover, which wasn’t easy since their weapons were making short work of the video-game consoles. If they kept this up, their entire store would soon be reduced to a circuit-board scrap heap.

I know I’d told Kildare I’d give him a day before I went after his parents; but I didn’t recall making a similar pledge about their security goons. I grabbed the turret-mounted gun off the first-person-shooter console next to me and quickly transformed the thing’s guts into those of an Embulsorator 2300—a weapon my father favored and whose popular nickname was the Fly Daddy, so called because it turned your opponent into a harmless species