Dead Shot Clock

Dewayne, were regular jokers, but their lips had been sealed all night. Their play in practice had been unusually aggressive, fueled by an inexplicable anger. Against tonight's opponent, that could prove especially deadly. The other team was, suffice to say, well known for retaliation. Daequan seemed in the best spirits of the squad, but he'd also played the worst during scrimmages, regularly passing recklessly and taking erratic shots. Then there was Eric, sulking despite being easily the MVP of the practice. Then, he always played with a chip on his shoulder. It came with the territory of being the shortest male player on the team.

  And of course, Jacob, their captain who would have to give the halftime speech, regardless of whether they were winning or losing. He'd already lost some of the team's respect with the locker room ordeal. However, ground could be regained in warm ups if he came out shooting hot. Or would that impress at all? How would last year's captain have handled a team's wandering faith? Jacob would never know since that player went into witness protection shortly after The Game. That's what awaited this team as well. No parades. No visits to the White House. Just their disappearance. Their win covered up.

  If they won.

  The bus veered off the highway it had been chugging over, off-roading out into the dust. The bumpiness of the ride was jacking the seats even further into the team's backs, garnering groans all around. Coach Santos stayed silent though, his eyes down, his face frowned. The tires were kicking up dirt and keeping Jacob from seeing their environment. A shudder went through him. It had to be nothing. The shots were always effective. They couldn't afford to fail.

  The bus stopped. The sky had grown too dark to see properly out of the window, but Jacob still caught outlines of a fence a short ways ahead of the bus. The players streamed out, nodding at the bus driver as they went. The driver, usually jovial, nodded stonily back. Outside was nippy, and despite their pants and jackets, everybody was shivering.

  A cadre of soldiers stood at attention in front of them. Heading them up was clearly an officer of some kind, his serious eyes meeting each teenager with intense focus. Jacob felt uncomfortable with that stare, as if somehow the officer knew all of the boy's secrets as if he were going to out Jacob right then and there before blasting a hole straight into his head.

  "Players," the officer said. "Representatives of North America basketball. I am Colonel David Rodriguez of the United States Army. And tonight, I am going to give you a final briefing on what you're about to accomplish." He extended his hand at the automatic gate immediately behind him. "This, sirs and miss, is Area Eighty-Four."

  The players looked down at their shuffling feet. Coach Santos stared resolutely ahead.

  "You should know now that this is it, the demilitarized zone between our world and Xibalba. Beyond this boundary is one of the five portals to Mayan hell. Past this spot is the court you'll be playing for the lives of millions and millions of people." Colonel Rodriguez pointed at the team. "If any of you, any of you, are not one hundred percent certain you're willing to make this sacrifice, get back on that bus. There's no shame in leaving. But there is shame in playing without complete commitment to this."

  Jacob's urge to back away from that fence, from these soldiers and his team was overwhelming. He could feel sweat on his forehead despite the night's chill. Eric should lead the team or Carlos. What had Jacob been thinking even volunteering for this? Regardless of his skills, regardless of all that practice, how could Jacob, of all people, protect the Earth?

  Instead of running away, he said, "We didn't come this far to retreat, sir."

  The Colonel smiled, helping Jacob to fear him a bit less but only a bit. "Team Captain, I take it? Any objections to that statement?"

  None came.

  He sighed. "Then I can stop with the Scare Straight and move on to the pep talk. You are the first and last line of defense between humanity and hell itself." He began pacing in front of them, looking players in the eye. "You've come into a long tradition of warfare. You are in the company of legions of Mayans who fought these devils on Pok Ta Pok courts hundreds of years ago. Pok Ta Pok, the game we now call basketball and those Mayans beat those demons so many times that they stopped even showing up. They stayed on their butts back in Xibalba."

  His tone was getting fiery now, the pain of recent memory etched out in words. "And you know what happened next. December Twenty-First. First there were the zombies."

  "The zombies killed my grandfather," spat out Eric. Jacob struggled to keep his face passive.

  "You're out of line, Starr," whispered Coach Santos.

  "No," said the colonel. "He's not. These are the stakes. They killed thousands across the world. Asia. Africa. Europe. The Middle East. Here. Our own people, we raised out of their eternal rest, just to destroy us all. We reclaimed some from the horde, or that's what our scientists tell us. But we," and the colonel had stopped in front of Eric, "know different."

  Jacob had to tuck his head in now, had to close his eyes. Maybe the colonel knew after all. Maybe the big reveal was just a few words away.

  "We 'reclaimed' zombies?" Jacob could hear Emma say.

  "The CDC found a countering antidote, something that could walk back the decaying and mindlessness. The thought was, they took our pawns, we'll take the pawns right back. However, it's only a stopgap. Without countless re-administrations of the antidote, they just revert to being our enemy." The Colonel was pacing again. "Enough about the zombies. The demons, that's when things got desperate with a strict scorched earth policy. You know the names. Guadalajara. Delhi. Bahrain. Of course, San Antonio. And who stopped them?"

  No responses back.

  "Kids like you. The demons agreed to retreat if they could play basketball with our children. Our fourteen-year olds. Tonight, when you win, under the Treaty of El Paso, the demons cannot advance and conquer the Americas for another year. Tonight, teams in China, Iran, Italy, and Cairo will win the freedom of their regions. If any of you were to lose, the demons could reenter the world. But that's not going to happen tonight, is it, grunts?"

  "No sir!" the players chorused.

  "There's a flatbed right beyond this fence with your name on it. Are your ready?"

  "Yes sir!"

  "Let's march!" The gate opened behind him with his motion backwards. The soldiers parted and lined up in attention, saluting the teens. Emma was jumping up and down; Dewayne was clapping for no reason. Jacob finally looked up, stared out at the night, and grinned. Maybe they were ready. Could any team this pumped up not be?

  "Hey!" yelled out Coach Santos. "Just one moment, team! Are you forgetting something?"

  The team's movement paused.

  "Forgetting to say goodbye?"

  Their faces turned solemn. Coach Santos didn't have clearance to come onto base with them. Treaty rules. The demons could afford to be arbitrary, seeing as how they had the upper hand; no coaches allowed. Two ten-minute halves, no timeouts spare the halftime. The demons only permitted four military personnel as witness for humanity's side.

  They took turns hugging their coach. Jacob could see tears in Dewayne's eyes as he walked away. Carlos had gone for a handshake as opposed to a hug, but that's how Carlos always was. Emma's hug went a moment beyond everybody else's. Coach Santos had to lobby the government extra hard to let a girl on the team, but Emma's perfected jump shot had sealed the deal. Then came Jacob's turn.

  Before they pulled away, the older man whispered in Jacob's ear, "Never show fear. Show those monsters this isn't a game to you."

  They piled onto the flatbed first, and then the colonel joined them. They waved to their coach as long as they could see him, but eventually, the truck had gone far enough away that the night had swallowed Santos up. Now all they had were their thoughts. Dewayne couldn't stop sniffling. Carlos's posture was still ramrod straight. Jacob felt like he should say something, but every monologue he considered sounded weak in his head.

  It was full-on night now. Out of the black peeked lights, and eventually, he cou
ld see the shape of a building. By all appearances, it seemed to be an aircraft hangar, its domed top reaching to the stars, windows shedding out illumination, trucks parked all around it. Even without context, Jacob would have feared the structure. There was something arachnid about all of the "eyes" peeking out of it. It was too tall to be a hangar. Like an obelisk.

  The colonel led them off the truck. "You get ten minutes for practice. Then you go to the locker room, do what you need to do for fifteen minutes, and you go back to the court."

  "Are you coming with us?" Eric asked.

  "No officer ranked higher than major allowed in the building."

  They marched on, past the guards posted around the entrance, into the arena. A hallway greeted them, lighted only by spotlights from the ceiling. The floor was sloppily poured concrete, scuffmarks streaking all across its frequently cracked surface. Other kids' shoes, Jacob realized. How many had died? Coach Santos had made sure to impress on his team that the demons were not above murder. "Intentional fouls" was the sarcastic term, with a demon's only punishment being automatic benching.

  The Treaty of El Paso was not publicly known. The world governments had agreed that humanity was better off thinking they'd somehow defeated the demons, as opposed to striking a plea bargain with them. Various federal agencies visited prospective players household