The Immortality Game

«It’s for your own good,» Javier finally responded. «I can try to help this girl myself, if you like, but you have no business trying to be a knight in white armor here. You have no idea where you are going or what you will do—»

Marcus shut off his wireless and sped up. He had just caught a glimpse of the big gangster far ahead through the crowd.

For once Zoya was glad to have the combat card. The way it made time appear to slow gave her the opportunity to consider her next actions. She hadn’t dared look behind her, but she was sure Tavik couldn’t be far behind. This part of the city was unfamiliar to her, but she was certain there had to be a metro entrance around here somewhere. Again she cursed her lack of wireless and the maps she could have easily accessed with it. She turned south at the next intersection; the morgue would be just across the river perhaps two kilometers from here, and she had always passed the Polyanka station on her morning walks to work. As she crossed the road she risked a glance back and was relieved to see Tavik and his monstrous comrade still a half block behind.

The small hill of trash she was passing would hide her from their sight for a few moments, so she looked at the list of alternatives the combat card provided. The first choice of grabbing a taxi seemed logical enough, but she’d wasted a good amount of her meager savings on one this morning already, money she had been hoarding for years in the hopes of ordering a child from the clinic. Zoya laughed inwardly at the thought. What does it matter now? I have no life left except to kill these bastards.

Still, another part of her wanted to remain on the ground, where she might get lucky and stumble upon a metro station or another bolt hole. She needed time to rest and think, time to plan her suicidal attack on The Pyramid.

Twisting to slip by an old woman pushing a rusty cart, she tweaked her knee and the old injury to her elbow throbbed with sympathy pain. Just what I needed! Running became torture now, and she was seriously considering pulling the gun and making a stand when she spotted the familiar ‘M’ of a metro station ahead near a U-shaped building with rubble and tangled bushes nearly choking the dark entranceway. She looked closer at the side of the building and saw that it was the Kropotkinskaya station. Now she knew where she was—her mother had taken her several times as a child to visit the ruins of the nearby cathedral.

Zoya ignored the pain in her leg and ran hard for the station. She stumbled and nearly fell as she crossed the street. Tents and makeshift huts crowded the strip of park at the center of the boulevard. The smell was even worse than the trash dump she had passed earlier. One of the metro entrances was boarded over with planks of ancient-looking wood, so she sprinted for the other side. There was a shout as she burst by two figures guarding the doorway. She tuned them out, swept down the short turns of stairs, and bowled over a man at the bottom of the steps. Strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the man growled, washing her face with the smell of vodka. In the dim yellow glow that the combat card gave to the man, Zoya saw that his head was shaved and entirely covered in hundreds of tiny curling tattoos. “You don’t belong here!”

“I’m sorry,” she panted. “I need help.”

The man crouched to retrieve a shotgun he had dropped when she had crashed into him.

“Get out of here. There’s no help for you,” he said.

More shouting came from the entrance above, and Zoya pointed up the stairs.

“Those men want to kill me. Please!”

The tattooed man raised his gun, though he wasn’t yet pointing it at Zoya. “What is it to us? You’re not of our tribe.”

A shot rang out above followed by a cry of pain and some scuffling. The tattooed man cursed and aimed his shotgun up the stairs. “What have you brought down on us?” he snarled.

Zoya lunged past the turnstiles and plunged down the escalator leading to the platform. Her knee was throbbing by the time she descended all the steps. Unlike the station near her home, this one was well lit by dozens of torches and lamps. The platform was covered with bedrolls and small tents, and she could see many Trogs lying, sitting, or shuffling about, all of them limned in yellow light.

“What do you want, child?” said an elderly woman, leaning against the nearest pillar with a shawl draped over her shoulders. Several more Trogs stood up and crowded close to Zoya, several of them wielding knives or metal pipes, though their faces were fearful. Another shot echoed from above.

“Help me,” Zoya said.

A large man stepped forward with a grimace on his face, but the old woman held up an arm and stopped him. “How can we help you?” she asked. “Have you brought this danger upon us?”