Fun and Games

or Armageddon, but then a thought occurred to him. Hardie moved into the media room, then saw his reflection in the darkened flat-screen. After a few seconds he figured out what was missing: No digital time readouts on the components.

The girl appeared in the room, bloodied mic stand still in her hand. The fact that it was his blood vaguely bothered Hardie.

She leaned forward and whisper-yelled: “What are you doing?”

“The power’s out,” Hardie said.

“Oh God. So they know I’m in here. They saw you walk in, and they think I’m in here…”

“Uh, you are in here.”

“They didn’t know that before you showed the fuck up!”

“Please, for the love of God… who is they?”

But the girl was already starting to panic, looking around at the windows and doorways, as if expecting a heavily armed unit of commandos to come storming into the house, spraying mace grenades and bullets.

Hardie had to admit, it was all starting to feel seriously strange to him, too. The power just so happens to go out just after he got his dumb ass stabbed in the chest? None of the previous explanations his lizard brain had come up with seemed to fit now. If it was just the girl, that would be one thing. People on drugs cooked up some truly weird shit in their fevered brains. But this was no simple cocaine-fueled delusion. Hardie was living in it, too.

He went to the front door, and, as predicted, the digital security panel was still lit. These systems always run by backup battery. That way, if home invaders cut the power, you can still call for help.

The girl appeared behind him and took him by the wrist. Hardie flinched at her touch.

“Come back downstairs with me,” she said. “Please. I don’t want them seeing us through the windows.”

“Hold on. The security’s still working. There’s got to be a panic button or something on here.”

“No! Don’t you dare touch that!”

“Why not?”

“They could be anybody. What if they just put on a bunch of fake security team uniforms and come knocking? How would you be able to tell the difference between what’s real and what they want you to see?”

“Just curious—do you realize how little sense you’re making right now? Or is this the drugs talking?”

BEEP.

Hardie’s eyes flicked to the right.

The security display panel?

Dead.

“Security’s out, power’s out, everything.”

“Okay. O’Neal—the wasp nest on the door?”

“Mounted, loaded, and ready.”

“Okay, let’s get bags ready, A.D.”

“On it. How is your eye, by the way?”

“Focus on the task at hand.”

“Sorry—just asking.”

“Ask me when the production is over. Now go.”

By the time Hardie put it fully together—that, yeah, someone on the outside was fucking with them—the girl had already taken up a position in front of the heavy oak door, mic stand in hand. Her whole body trembled. She was wild-eyed. She pressed her free hand against the door, as if trying to sense what was on the other side through the power of touch.

Hardie took a step forward. “You need to let me through.”

She whisper-yelled at him: “No, I will not fucking let you through. Don’t you understand? That’s what they want! You open this door, and we’re both dead.”

“If you don’t let me through so I can get to a hospital, then I might be dead, and you might be going to jail. Is that any better?”

This was wonderful. Already this gig had earned its place in the House Sitter Hall of Fame.

Hardie took a step forward. The girl raised her weapon—the bloodied mic stand—and pointed it at him.

“Want me to go now?”

“No. Wait to see if he comes out on his own. He might think the whole area is out and step outside to check.”

“How about I get into position, anyway, and wait for your signal?”

“Go ahead.”

Hardie didn’t know if he should swat the mic stand to the side, try to snatch it out of her hands, or give up.

“Are you really threatening to stab me with that thing?”

“I won’t let you open this door.”

“Look. I believe you. There is some kind of They out there. They are most definitely fucking with us. But I don’t want to sit here and wait for them to make a move. I used to be with the police. I think I can handle myself.”

Even Hardie knew that last line sounded full of shit. Yes, he sort of used to be something like a cop. But that had been three long years ago. A lot of drinking and poor eating and general sloth had atrophied his muscles. He was slower, larger. His liver wasn’t talking to him anymore, and his heart gave him little friendly reminders every so often that he might want to get his ass up and move around a little. The mornings he felt good simply meant that he’d passed out before he could have any more to drink.

So… I can handle myself ?

Sure, Unkillable Chuck. Whatever you say.

The fact remained—he wanted to look outside and see what the hell was going on. Maybe it wasn’t just this house but the whole block. Maybe World War III had kicked off, and he’d be able to see downtown L.A. go up in a flash of blinding light.

But the girl was still stubbornly blocking his way.

“You can’t handle these people. Believe me.”

“Still nothing.”

“Playing it safe, I guess. Okay, go head. Take it.”

“On it.”

Hardie heard a car engine rev, though at first he thought it was the power kicking back on. Then came the screech of tires, which quickly receded into the distance. Wait a second now…

He went for the door handle. The girl held up the edge of the mic stand so that it pointed at his throat.

“Don’t. I’m warning you.”

Hardie said, “Let me look.”

“Use a window.”

Hardie didn’t want to get into another wrestling match with this psycho chick. She might end up stabbing that damned mic stand in another part of his body. His luck, his goddamned eye. So, fine, he’d open the front door later. Hardie sidestepped away from the girl and made his way to the wide-screen windows in the living room. He pulled aside the dusty curtains, then looked outside, and then immediately muttered,

“Fuck me.”

Hardie had pulled up what… thirty minutes ago?

His Honda Whatever was gone.