The Immortality Game

Her mind wanted to hum something, as was her habit most times when she was alone, but as much as she loved music, it should be the last thing on her mind given the way the day had gone. Then the moment she decided to push it from her mind, she found herself humming an appropriate song, Trouble by Cat Stevens.

She brushed away a poplar seed from her ear and continued to scan the parking lot. Why isn’t the car taking Marcus home? And why isn’t Oksana answering? Is she out? She pushed the buzzer again. After a few more seconds, she tapped in the security code and pushed through the wooden entrance door. Oksana’s apartment was the next to last one down the corridor to the right. Zoya ensured both corridors were empty before walking slowly down the hall to Oksana’s door. She jerked to a halt and grabbed the wall with one hand to steady herself when she saw that Oksana’s door was standing open a few centimeters.

Oh, God, not Oksana, too!

Zoya had to force herself to breathe, but she couldn’t make her body stop trembling. She felt frozen to the ratty carpet of the corridor, afraid to glance behind her, certain that her pursuers must even now be stalking up behind her. She heard nothing, either from the corridor or from the open apartment door.

What do I do? I can’t just stand here. Slowly she turned her head until she could view the hallway behind her. Empty. Sweat trickled into her eyes, and she rubbed an arm across her forehead. She remembered the gun, jammed into the waistband of her trousers, and she reached back for it. Its pebbled grip was reassuringly cool as she pulled it forth and aimed loosely at the crack in the apartment door.

“Oks—” She tried to call her friend’s name, but it came out as a wheezing croak, so she worked her mouth to generate some saliva. Licking her lips, she tried again in a loud whisper: “Oksana?”

Silence. She considered approaching the door, but her feet wouldn’t obey her orders. A metallic clack made her cry out and whirl around to point the gun down the corridor. No one was there, but the apartment door of Oksana’s neighbor opened. Zoya’s grip on the gun felt slick with sweat. Why didn’t you put the card in? You won’t hit anything this way.

A small dog yapped from the neighbor’s apartment, and an elderly man in a brown bathrobe stepped through the doorway. Zoya was so frightened she nearly pulled the trigger. The man looked at her and his eyes widened. He put both hands up, mumbled something inaudible, and stepped back into his apartment. The door slammed shut.

Zoya had stopped breathing and her lungs burned, but she couldn’t make her throat work. She opened and closed her mouth like a dying fish. Finally she gasped and sucked the stale corridor air into her burning lungs. Panting, she lowered the gun and turned back to Oksana’s door.

She stood for a full minute, trying to work up her courage before she remembered the card. With her free hand she searched her pocket until she found the smaller card, then slid it home into her slot. The effect wasn’t quite the shock to her system it had been the first two times. A row of data above her line of sight reminded her that the gun she held was a Gsh-18 pistol. When she focused her attention on the data, more gushed forth: the pistol was manufactured in 2083 using a civilian design from 2012; weight 470 grams; eighteen round magazine…‌she ignored the rest of the data for now.

Somehow the card had brought her galloping heart under control. She tried to step up to Oksana’s door, but instead she moved to the side closest to the knob. She didn’t enjoy the sensation of the card choosing her movements for her. For a moment she considered the idea that the card might cause her to shoot Oksana, but she recalled the yellow and red auras and decided that probably wouldn’t happen.

Was that a sound from the apartment? She listened intently but heard nothing. When she tried to think what the sound had been, she couldn’t say or even know for certain that it wasn’t simply her overactive imagination. She scanned the column of tactical options until she found one for urban warfare. When she selected it, a new row of options appeared. She mentally selected the choice for ‘apartment building’, followed by ‘door—metallic’, and ‘unlocked’, and continued making choices that seemed to fit her situation until the card seemed satisfied. Yes, she had a small mirror in the pouch in her solar jacket. No, she didn’t have any grenades or flash bangs. She didn’t know whether there were enemies inside or not, and yes, it was possible there might be friendlies. Without making a conscious decision to do so, Zoya’s free hand lashed out and shoved the door open. She stood hidden behind the wall for a couple of seconds, then dropped low and glanced through the doorway.