The Immortality Game

Zoya’s hand encountered something hard and coldly metallic. Using both hands, she patted the flat sides until she was certain she had found a ticketing booth. Behind her came a shout and the light jerked and dimmed at the sound of a large body hitting the ground. Zoya edged by the booth and saw a faint gleam of light off of metal ahead of her. It was the bank of escalators. Now that she could see again, she hurried toward the closest one. She saw where the light came from, as far above up the long escalator sunlight streamed in from the metro entrance.

With a whimper at the thought of the exhausting climb, Zoya stepped up onto the first stair. She didn’t trust her footing in the dim light, so she climbed using all four limbs. The sunlight was discouragingly far away, so she concentrated on the placement of her hands with each upward step. A hint of fresh breeze wafted down from above and cooled the sweat on her brow. Her injured knee and elbow protested, and even her uninjured muscles threatened to give out from overuse, but she overruled them with her mind and forced her way up step by step toward the light.

Moscow

Sunday, June 8, 2138

8:56 p.m. MSK

Marcus stumbled to a halt, panting, and gripped his painful, heaving sides with one arm while the other trembled to keep from dropping the torch. He had tried so hard to keep up with the swaying light. It had vanished some time ago, and Marcus had done his best to pick up the pace, despite his utter exhaustion, but he had never caught sight of it again. Now he was done, blown like an old racehorse that had tried to run a derby.

What a day. It seemed like weeks since he had taken the exam for his doctorate, though it had been less than a day, even with all the time zones. Who could have ever imagined he would be trotting through pitch dark tunnels beneath the streets of a strange metropolis, chasing after Russian gangsters no less? He had never imagined doing anything so absolutely insane in his life, and yet he undeniably felt more alive than he could ever recall. Despite the exhaustion, the hunger, the fear. The picture floated up in his mind again…‌the photo of Zoya on the wall, with sad eyes and a small, sad smile. He’d seen her in person, but it was always the photo that pushed to the forefront of his mind when he thought of her.

Now he imagined what that impossibly beautiful woman was going through at this moment, running for her life, her family and friends dead, an unrelenting nightmare and—who knows?—perhaps by now the bastards had already caught and killed her. And he could do nothing to prevent it from happening. Even if he could catch up with them, what could he be expected to do to help her? A scene formed in his mind as his panting breath finally slowed—him shouting at the mobsters just as they are about to shoot her; them turning and shooting him instead, giving her the one chance she needs to make her escape; him dying with a smile on his lips, knowing it was worth it to give it all up for her. He slapped a hand to his forehead. Stupid daydreaming fat ass! If you can’t help her then call Father and get this farce over with!

He lifted his chin and gave a start when he noticed a dim light in the distance. Are they coming back? Did they kill her and now they are coming for me?

Whoever it was, they were in no hurry. The light bobbed and took its time getting any brighter. Then it halted, and Marcus realized the person or persons must have seen his own flickering torchlight. Marcus considered his options and realized that escape wasn’t an option. He was finished. He took a few steps in the direction of the light, figuring he might as well make it easy for everyone. Should I call Papa? A breeze wafted down the tunnel, carrying a faint sickly-sweet smell that he couldn’t place. The light began to move again.

“Hello?” he said, then realized he had forgotten to use the translator, so he said it again in Russian. There was no response, but the light grew brighter.

Marcus stopped and waited. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to strain himself further until that time. He put a hand against the wall of the tunnel, then jerked it away again when he felt its cold griminess. The light resolved itself into a lamp, swaying in the hand of a burly man with thinning hair and deeply etched lines on his scowling face. The man stopped.

“Who are you?”

“Marcus.”

“Foreigner.” It wasn’t a question.

“American.” He was too tired to be precise and say Western American.

The big man shrugged. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

“The girl,” Marcus said. “I’m trying to help her.”

The man scanned Marcus up and down, and Marcus knew how absurd he must look. The man grinned. “How can you help her?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I must try.”

“You’ll never catch them.”