Scavenger

  2

  Hunt Field Airport, Lander, Wyoming, ten minutes after midnight.

  As the Lear jet touched down, Balenger stared out a window toward the lights on the runway, which glistened from recent rain. He waited impatiently to get into motion again. Before leaving Teterboro Airport, he’d made several phone calls and now prayed for the results he’d been promised.

  The jet’s engines slowed, their muffled whine stopping. After the hatch was opened, he went down steps, saw a lighted window, and walked through puddles toward a door.

  Inside, he found a mustached man in a cowboy hat sitting behind a counter watching a World War Two movie on a small television. “You Frank Balenger?” the man asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Your rental car’s outside. The guy who brought it from town said to remind you there’s a surcharge for after-hours service.”

  “That was the agreement.”

  “Sign these papers. Show me your credit card and driver’s license.”

  Balenger went out the front of the building and found a dark, water-dotted Jeep Cherokee. As promised, maps lay on the passenger seat. He studied them with the help of the overhead light.

  “Can you give us a ride into town?” one of the pilots asked.

  “It’s on my way.”

  “You wouldn’t think an airport this small would be busy this time of night,” the other pilot said.

  Balenger almost let the remark pass. A warning thought made him ask, “What do you mean?”

  “The fellow inside told us a Gulfstream flew in five minutes before we did. Just like you, only one passenger. Funny thing, that flight also came from Teterboro.”

  “What?” Balenger dropped the maps on the seat and went back inside the building. “Someone flew in on a Gulfstream from Teterboro?” he asked the man in the cowboy hat.

  “Five minutes ago. A woman. She just drove off.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Didn’t pay attention.”

  “In her forties? Hair pulled back in a bun?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  3

  On Lander’s main street, Balenger let the pilots out at the Wind River Motel, then continued. The Jeep’s tires whispered on wet pavement as he studied the sprawl of low buildings. He stopped in a parking lot of a bar, familiarized himself with a map of local businesses, and drove to a sporting-goods store. By then, it was after midnight. The windows were dark, the place closed. But at least, he knew its location and could find it quickly the next morning. He drove to a truck stop, got a strong cup of coffee to go, returned to the Jeep, set the mileage indicator, and headed north along Highway 287. He passed a sign that warned ELK CROSSING. To his left, snow capped the hulking shadows of the mountains. Only occasional headlights came in his direction. Most belonged to pickup trucks and SUVs. One was a police car.

  “Fifty miles,” Professor Graham had said. When the Jeep’s distance indicator reached 40, Balenger started looking for roads that led off the highway toward the mountains. He lowered his speed and studied the first one. It was primitive and blocked by a gate. The lights from the Jeep showed that there weren’t any tire tracks in the mud. The next side road didn’t have a gate, but there, too, Balenger didn’t see any tracks. He drove all the way to mile 60. Of the remaining four side roads, only two had tire tracks. He checked a map. Neither road was marked on it. The map didn’t have topographical features, so he couldn’t tell if either road led to a mountain valley. But the road at mile 58 was in line with lights in a building, whereas the road at mile 48 had only dark mountains beyond it.

  The time was 1:52 a.m. When Balenger returned to Lander, the dashboard clock showed 2:48. Exhausted, he checked into a motel, lay on the covers of the bed, and might even have slept a little. The motel’s desk clerk phoned to wake him at eight as requested. He showered and used a razor and toothbrush that he’d bought from the truck stop the night before. He almost didn’t take the time to clean up, but he remembered an old movie, The Hustler, in which Paul Newman plays an epic pool game with Jackie Gleason. Newman’s character doesn’t shave and looks increasingly disheveled while Gleason washes his hands and face, gets his jacket brushed, and puts a fresh flower in his jacket’s lapel. Gleason wins.

  Balenger drove to a McDonalds and got take-out orange juice, coffee, hash browns, and two Egg McMuffins. He ate them in his car while waiting for the sporting-goods store to open, as its sign promised, at nine.

  The store sold firearms. He walked along a counter on the left and paused at the semiautomatic rifles.

  “Anything special you’re looking for?” The clerk was hefty, wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and a belt buckle shaped like a saddle.

  “Got any Bushmasters.” Balenger referred to a civilian version of the M-16 he’d carried in Iraq.

  “Fresh out.”

  “Let me look at that Ruger Mini-14.”

  “The ranch gun? Sure.”

  The clerk took it from a group of rifles in a vertical rack. He pulled out its magazine and tugged back its bolt, showing Balenger that it was empty.

  Balenger inspected the weapon. As its name implied, it was a cut-down version of the military’s M-14, the precursor to the M-16. But unlike the harsh, distinctly military look of most assault rifles, the Mini-14’s blue steel and wooden stock made it resemble a standard hunting rifle. Indeed, its comparatively benign appearance caused it to be exempted from a 1994-2004 law that made it illegal to sell semiautomatic assault weapons in the United States, even though the Mini-14 fired the same .223 caliber and could deliver as much firepower as the civilian version of the M-16. When Balenger was in law enforcement, he’d known police officers who carried Mini-14s in their cars, choosing that model because it was compact.

  “Good for varmint hunting,” the clerk said.

  “Got any Winchester 55-grain Ballistic Silvertips?”

  “Long-range accurate. Nice fragmentation. You know your ammo. How many boxes?”

  Balenger knew there were twenty rounds per box. “Ten.”

  “You must have a lot of varmints.”

  “New rifle. Need to sight it in. Better make it fifteen.”

  “All it comes with is that five-round magazine,” the clerk said apologetically.

  “Got any for twenty rounds?”

  “A couple.”

  “I’ll take them. How about a red-dot sight?”

  “This Bushnell HOLOsight.”

  Balenger knew that the battery-powered sight used holographic technology to impose a red dot over its target. But the dot wasn’t projected in the manner of a laser beam, thus giving away the shooter’s position. Rather, the dot was projected only within the sight. Lining it up with the target was remarkably easy, virtually assuring an accurate shot. “You’ll attach it for me? Good. I’ll take that Emerson CQC-7 knife. A sling for the rifle. A knapsack. Tan camping boots and clothes. A first-aid kit. A canteen. Rain gear. Gloves. Wool socks. A flashlight. That wide-brimmed tan hat. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. A box of energy bars. And binoculars that convert to night vision.”

  “It’s nice to have a customer who knows what he wants.”

  Balenger gave him a credit card.

  “Sign here for the ammo,” the clerk said.

  Recalling his Ranger training, Balenger added, “I also need a compass and a topographic map of the eastern Wind River Range.”

  “Which section?”

  Balenger went to a map on the wall and pointed.

  He put his purchases in the back of the Jeep, then drove to a truck stop on Highway 287, where he filled the canteen and bought a case of water along with a packet of Kleenex. The latter was a substitute for something he’d forgotten in the sporting-goods store and was as crucial as the water. He also bought a roll of duct tape from a shelf next to radiator hoses.

  Back in the Jeep, he studied the topographic map. The valley wasn’t difficult to locate. As Professor Graham had told him, it was the only valley in the area that
had a lake. Most of the roads he’d checked the previous night were also indicated on the map, but not the one where he’d seen the unexplained tire tracks, even though he believed that road did lead to the valley, just as he believed that Karen Bailey was in the vehicle that made the tracks. She presumably went to meet her brother. But if Balenger followed that road, the Game Master…Why don’t I want to call him Jonathan Creed? Balenger wondered…the Game Master was virtually certain to notice him. Virtually certain. The words struck Balenger as morbidly apt. The Game Master’s world was virtual. Studying the map, he noticed that a little farther north, a road ran in the general direction of the valley but then stopped where the foothills blocked the way.

  He drove.

  For the first time since flying from Teterboro, he activated the BlackBerry. Almost immediately, it rang. He picked it up.

  “You exposed a flaw in the game,” the deep voice said. “Because I’m testing the prototype, I suppose I ought to be grateful.”

  Again, Balenger wanted to shout in rage, but he managed to resist the temptation. To hide his emotions, he said nothing.

  “You can’t be my avatar if I can’t follow your progress at all times,” the Game Master said.

  “If you identified with me, you’d give Amanda back.”

  “Tell me where you are. Maybe you’re going in the wrong direction.”

  “I doubt it. Think positively. The game just reached a new level.”

  “How?”

  “You’re a player now instead of an observer. Try to anticipate my moves.”

  “Do you ever watch Survivor?”

  “All I watch is the History Channel.”

  “Attractive people from different backgrounds are brought together in a hostile environment—a jungle, for example.”

  Balenger stared ahead, impatient for the side road to come into view.

  “The program attempts to create the illusion that the group is marooned, forced to survive by whatever means possible,” the Game Master continued. “But any thoughtful viewer sees through the illusion by realizing that the cameras, most of them handheld, need to be controlled by operators and that the hidden microphones are linked to audio technicians, and that behind the scenes there are crew members and producers, who aren’t in danger even though the contestants are supposedly struggling to survive.”

  A police car went past. For a moment, Balenger was tempted to stop the cruiser and ask for help, but he kept remembering the BlackBerry image of the woman exploding in a red mist. Even if the police could somehow invade the valley without revealing their presence, it didn’t seem possible that they could get organized by midnight, and Balenger had no doubt that if he didn’t save Amanda by midnight, she would die.

  “What if a show like Survivor had a fatal accident?” the Game Master asked. “What if, despite every precaution, someone fell off a waterfall, for example, and died? Would the producers cut the accident from the broadcast? Would they say, ‘This is a tragedy, and we can’t let you see it?’ Or would they say, ‘We need to include the accident to pay tribute to the brave contestant who risked his life for the program?’ Including it would prove that the show is indeed dangerous. Thereafter, viewers would tune in with the understanding that lethal accidents might occur at any time. People wouldn’t miss an episode.”

  Balenger drove past the road to the valley, the road on which he’d seen tire tracks in the mud the previous night.

  “With that precedent established,” the voice said, “other programs would include similar high-risk contests. It isn’t hard to imagine the inevitable evolution and the implied enticement: ‘Watch tonight’s episode. Someone might die.’”

  “As you said earlier, things always get more extreme.” Balenger barely concealed his disgust.

  Ahead, the side road beckoned.

  “Yes, but that’s merely a television show while Scavenger is a God game combined with a first-person shooter game. Above the players is the Game Master, who can speak to the competitors, provide clues or withhold them, and observe the life lessons that the players acquire.”

  “A God game,” Balenger said acidly. “But what kind of God doesn’t allow the participants to win?”

  “Who said anything about not winning? Every superior game needs a worthy goal. To survive, all the participants need to do is find the Sepulcher of Worldly Desires.”

  4

  Amanda raised her head from the boards she lay on. Light struggled through the gaps on each side of the door. She and Viv were huddled against each other, trying to share body heat. Exhausted despite having slept, she worked to open her heavy eyes. Peering through the gap on the right of the door, she frowned. Everything outside was white.

  She pushed the door. As it flopped down, the reflection from the bright sky made her squint.

  Viv raised her head, blinking. Grief hollowed her features. She needed several moments to focus on what she saw.

  “It snowed,” Amanda said, bewildered. “In June.”

  Viv hesitated, straining to adjust to the renewed shock of Derrick’s murder. “In the Rockies,” she finally said, sounding numb, “I’ve seen it snow in July. What time is it?” She had trouble focusing on her watch. “The carbon dioxide must have drugged us. It’s almost nine o’clock.”

  Fear overcame Viv’s grief. Startled by the time they’d lost, she and Amanda hurried to remove the laces from the door and shove them through the eyelets in their boots.

  Amanda picked up the empty bottle she’d set outside. Snow capped the top. A little moisture was inside.

  “Stuff snow into it,” Viv said. Another emotion—anger—was in her voice, and the confidence that she knew how to survive in the wilderness. “It won’t hurt us for now. The snow fleas haven’t shown up yet.”

  Amanda felt her skin itch. “Snow fleas?”

  “In spring, they hatch. They look like dirt on the snow. I don’t see any yet.”

  The snow wasn’t deep—only an inch. Amanda studied it, making sure there weren’t specks. Then she skimmed some into a hand and raised it to her mouth.

  “No,” Viv warned. “The heat your body uses to melt snow in your mouth saps your energy.”

  Amanda found it strange that her thirst was greater than her hunger. Perhaps the fruit juice and pears she’d eaten the day before were of greater benefit than she hoped. Or perhaps my digestive system’s shutting down, she thought. Some kind of protective mechanism. She felt lightheaded.

  She filled their lungs with the cool morning air—and something else.

  “Smoke,” Viv said.

  They turned to the right. About fifty yards away, Ray had managed to get a fire going in the street. The flames crackled. Smoke rose. He stared at them, opening and closing his lighter.

  “I see the dogs didn’t get you,” Viv said angrily into the microphone on her headset.

  Ray pointed toward a horizontal open space under a pile of boards. It resembled a coffin on its side. A door lay in front of it. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Viv put a hand over her microphone to prevent Ray from hearing what she said next. With a worried look, she turned toward Amanda. “I haven’t felt the need to urinate. We’re not getting enough water for our kidneys to work.” She drank half her remaining bottle of water and gave it to Amanda. The motive was clear—they couldn’t get revenge if they didn’t survive. “Drink the rest of it. I’m going to try to force my bladder.”

  “Here, you’ll want this.” Amanda pulled the toilet paper from her jumpsuit and divided it.

  Viv touched the paper as if it were something she’d never seen before and she couldn’t imagine why Amanda would share it. Boots crushing the snow, they walked in the opposite direction from Ray, then separated, each finding wreckage to crouch behind.

  As Amanda unzipped her jumpsuit, she said into the microphone on her headset, “Game Master, if you’re watching, maybe you should be looking at porn movies instead.”

  “Sex was never important to me,” the voice res
ponded. “I’m not looking.”

  “Right.”

  “Not even Ray is looking.”

  Amanda peered over the rubble and saw that Ray was indeed facing another direction, toward the area the GPS coordinates had led him to the day before. Seen in profile, he appeared to be frowning.

  Amanda squeezed the muscles in her abdomen. Urine dribbled, orange, with a strong odor. Not good, she thought. After she covered the toilet paper with boards, she went back to Viv. “We need to get that water bottle from Derrick.”

  Pale, Viv nodded. “You. I can’t.”

  Amanda walked up the street. As the sun got warmer, the snow made liquid sounds under her boots. She neared Derrick’s body, seeing its contour under the slush.

  “Stop,” Ray said.

  Amanda thought he was telling her to keep a distance from him. But she didn’t give a damn what he wanted. She needed that water bottle. She stepped closer.

  “No!” Ray yelled.

  Then she did stop, because the contour didn’t look the same as the last time she’d seen Derrick’s body. It had an odd shape. Melting snow slid off him. If Amanda’s stomach hadn’t been empty, she might have thrown up.

  Hearing Viv walk toward her, she whirled, trying to form a shield. “Go back!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t look!”

  But Viv did look. What she saw made her eyes widen.

  Derrick’s corpse—not just his battered face, but his entire body—was unrecognizable. His guts had been torn out. His arms and legs had been chewed to the bone. His hands were missing.

  The dogs, Amanda realized. Last night when we heard them fighting, I thought they’d cornered Ray. But now she understood that it was Derrick’s corpse they’d been fighting over.

  “Hey, where’s she going?” Ray asked.

  Amanda turned. Viv plodded away from them.

  “Viv?”

  She staggered on. Her gaze was fixed on the pass through the mountains at the end of the valley.

  Amanda hurried to her.

  “Too much,” Viv murmured.

  “Stop.” Amanda kept pace with her.