turger. They had been crushed to red goo and bone chips, and now no one knew that he was trapped in this awful box. He would starve to death and die of thirst and end up looking like something on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Ben lost track of time and drifted at the edges of sleep. He didn't know if he was awake or asleep. 'HELPI'MD 0 WNHERE!PLEASELETME 0 UT!'' No one answered. 'MAMAAAAAAAAA!' Something kicked his foot and he jumped as if ten thousand volts had amped through his body. 'Jesus, kid! Stop whining!' The Queen of Blame leaned on her elbow at the far end of the box: a beautiful young woman with silky black hair, long golden legs, and voluptuous breasts spilling out of a tiny halter. She didn't look happy. Ben shrieked, and the Queen plugged her ears. 'Christ, you're loud.' 'You're not real! You're only a game!' 'Then this won't hurt.' She twisted his foot. Hard. 'Ow!' Ben scrambled backwards, slipping and sliding with no place to go. She couldn't be real! He was trapped in a nightmare! The Queen grinned nastily, then touched him with the toe of a gleaming vinyl boot. 'You don't think I'm real, big guy? Go ahead. Feel it.' 'No I' She arched her eyebrows knowingly and stroked her boot along his leg. 'You know how many boys wanna touch that boot? Feel it. See if I'm real.'
Ben reached out with a finger. The boot was as slick as a polished car and as solid as the box around him. Her
toes flexed. Ben jerked back his hand.
The Queen laughed.
'You wouldn't last two seconds against Modus!' 'I'm only ten! I'm scared and I want to go home!'
The Queen examined her nails as if she was bored.
Each nail was a glistening razor-sharp emerald. 'So go. You can leave any time you want.' 'I've been trying to go. We're trapped!' The Queen raised her eyebrows again. 'Are we?'
She watched him without expression, tracing her nails over a belly that was as flat as tiles on a floor. Her nails
were so sharp that they scratched her skin.
'You can leave any time you want.'
Ben thought she was teasing him, and his eyes welled with tears.
'That isn't funny! I've been calling for help all night and no one can hear me!'
The Queen's beautiful face grew fierce. Her eyes blazed like deranged yellow orbs and her hand raked the air like a claw.
'Claw your way out, you idiot! See how SHARP!' Ben cowered back, terrified. 'Get away from me!'
She leaned closer, fingers weaving like snakes. Her nails were glittering knives.
'FEEL THE SHARP POINTS! FEEL HOW THEY CUT!'
'Go away!'
She lunged at him.
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79
Ben threw his arms over his head. He screamed as the
razor-sharp points dug into his leg.
Then he woke up.
Ben found himself curled into a ball, cowering. He blinked into the darkness, listening. The box was silent and empty. He was alone. It had all been a nightmare, except that Ben could still feel the sharp pain of her nails in his thigh.
He rolled onto his side, and the sharp thing bit deeper. 'Ouch!'
He felt to see what was sticking him. Elvis Co, le's Silver Star was in his pocket. He took it out, and traced the medal's five points with his fingers. They were hard and sharp, just like a knife. He pressed a point into the plastic overhead, then sawed the medal back and forth. He felt the plastic with his fingers. A thin line was scribed in his sky.
Ben worked the medal back and forth some more, and the line grew deeper. He pushed faster and harder, his arms pumping like pistons. Tiny bits of plastic fell through the darkness like rain.
CHAPTER 7
The Operator
Michael Fallon was naked except for faded blue shorts. With the windows covered and the central air off so that the neighbors wouldn't hear it running, the house felt like an oven. Fallon didn't mind. He had been in plenty of Third World shitholes where heat like this was a breath of cool air.
Schilling and Ibo had gone out to steal a car, so Fallon stripped down to exercise. He tried to work out every day, because if your edge wasn't clean the other guy had you, and nobody had Mike Fallon.
He did two hundred push-ups, two hundred crunches, two hundred leg lifts, and two hundred back bends without pausing between sets, repeated the cycle twice more, then triple-timed in place for twenty minutes, bringing his knees high to his chest. Sweat glazed his skin like icing and splattered the floor like rain, but it wasn't much of a workout; Fallon regularly ran ten miles with a sixty-pound ruck.
Fallon was toweling off the sweat when the garage door rumbled open. That would be Schilling and Ibo, but he picked up his .45 just in case.
They came through the kitchen with two bags from Ralphs, Schilling calling like some stiff who was getting home in the 'burbs.
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