He nodded and tried to get to his feet. He failed. I stood and offered him a hand. He took it, and I helped him up. He didn't let go of me immediately. His hand was as dirty as the rest of him, but firm, with long fingers that warmly wrapped around mine. I didn't pull away.
I considered using my ability on him, but I'd had just about as much pain as I could deal with for one day.
Back when I was still a teenager, I realized that I had a very special talent. If I touched somebody skin-to-skin and flexed my mind in precisely the right direction, I could get a read on them. As I've gotten older, my talent has gotten better and better. It's a very useful tool, actually.
The only thing I could compare it to was those Magic Eye posters that were popular years and years ago. It just seemed like a jumble of pattern and color unless you looked at it just right. Looked just beyond it and then suddenly the true picture appeared as clear as day.
I wasn't really psychic, I didn't think. It wasn't like I could actually read minds or anything. I knew that. But it scared the hell out of me, and I used it as little as I possibly could, but I did have it, quite literally, at my fingertips.
I could tell who somebody really was in their-it sounded stupid-but in their soul. If they were honest or if they were lying. If they were hiding something. Not exactly what they were hiding, but I'd know if there was something just waiting to be found.
Every now and then, when I was very desperate, I used my ability, my flex, as I liked to call it, to pick my marks. If there was any doubt in my mind that the men I was about to steal from were scum, I'd do the flex and find out for sure. I didn't like stealing from nice guys. Lucky for me, and unlucky for them, I hadn't met a nice guy in a really long time. I figured they'd all gone to Offworld.
The only side effect was a wicked headache. The scummier the guy was, the worse the pain was. Not something I needed right now.
Besides, I already knew that Rogan wasn't a very nice guy. I didn't need the migraine to prove it.
And knowing that, why the hell didn't I want to pull away from his touch? What was wrong with me?
I didn't like to be touched if I could help it. But this.. this wasn't touching, really. It was just a helping hand.
To a convicted mass murderer.
With that thought, and another flash of my family's faces, I yanked my hand away from him as if I'd had it submerged in a vat of piranha.
His expression shadowed, and he stuffed his hands deeply into the pockets of his torn, dirty jeans.
"I'll tell you everything I know, sweetheart. But we need to get a move on."
"There are ten minutes remaining in this level of The Countdown," the voice said from out of nowhere.
When I didn't immediately start moving, Rogan raised an eyebrow at me.
"Let's get going," he said. "I'm not in good enough shape to keep running. Better make it a brisk stagger, so we need to move now."
I frowned and tried to recall the map. Shit. I should have paid more attention. I felt fingers of panic dig into my stomach.
As if he had read my thoughts, he forced a grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I know where we're headed."
I scowled at him. 'The name's Kira. Not sweetheart."
His grin widened a fraction. "Struck a nerve, did I? No pet names. Got it."
I studied him for a moment longer. That scar across his left eye. I wondered how he got it. Probably in prison. Or maybe one of his victims had attempted to fight back before he'd mercilessly snuffed out his or her life.
Scumbag.
He caught me staring at his face and turned away. "Let's get going, Kira."
We walked. Slower than I would have liked, but it would have to do. With every step we took I felt the clock ticking down the seconds we had left. What if we didn't make it in time? Would they really kill us? Just like that?
I was finding it easier and easier to believe as the minutes went by.
"The Countdown," Rogan began as we trudged along steadily, "is just what it sounds like. A series of tasks with a set time frame and a win-or-lose outcome. It's a game."
"A game?" I glanced at him and kept walking. My heart pounded loud in my ears. "I didn't agree to play any game."
"You didn't have to. The Countdown plays on the fringes of society. Very deep. Very secret. That's what makes it so appealing to the subscribers."
"Subscribers?"
"Rich, bored elite who haven't gone to Offworld yet and want to be entertained by a modern Colosseum. Death matches."
I shook my head. "How is this even allowed? Wouldn't it be illegal?"
"I know that. You know that. But like I said, it's a secret game. It's not on any public network. Besides, cops wouldn't give a shit about what happens to criminals, anyhow. Makes their jobs easier, doesn't it? Subscribers are fitted with cranium implants so they can watch the show in their heads. It's like virtual reality, only they're just doing the watching, not the participating. Safer that way for them. Bunch of rich cowards who get off on violence." His expression soured.
"How do you know all this?"
He licked his lips and didn't look at me. "In prison. They recruit there a lot. Take a few lifers and give them a choice to play the game or die? Most will play the game."
"That's how they got you."
"That's right."
I shook my head. "It just doesn't make any sense."
"It doesn't have to. The bottom line is that it exists. And we're right in the bloody middle of it now." He eyed me. "I don't get you, though."
"Right back at you."
"No, I don't understand why you were recruited. You weren't in prison. I know you were into low-end crime and that you have no family, but still. You're too young. Too soft."
"There's nothing soft about me."
His lips twitched. "Oh, I don't know about that."
"Keep walking." I put one foot in front of the other. "You're sure you know where we're going?"
He nodded. "Yeah, it's not far from here."
This was insane. All of it. "So if we finish-how many levels again?"
"Six."
"If we finish six levels like the voice said, we'll win. What does that mean?"
"Freedom. Money. I don't know what else. It depends on the player, I think."
"And if we mess up …"
"No freedom, no money, and a bullet in the brain. That's if we're lucky."
My stomach twisted. "Who would want to watch this?"
"You'd be surprised. The subscription to The Countdown isn't cheap and it's based on how much they watch. And the cranium implant is surgery. Nothing to be taken lightly. The subscribers take it very seriously, and they expect to get their money's worth. Maybe that's why they had you join the cast. I don't think they've ever had a female contestant before."
That wasn't terribly comforting. "Lucky me. Maybe they think we'll make a good couple."
He glanced at me. "Maybe we will."
"I wouldn't bet on it." I looked away. "Are we almost there?"
He nodded. "I think so."
"You think so? I thought you were sure where we were going."
"I've been in prison for four years. Things change. Do you know this neighborhood?"
"No."
I took a good look around. Gray on gray. No trees, no parked cars. Even the street signs were broken off the remaining poles on the corner ahead. Nothing was familiar to me.
Something flew out from behind a corner ahead of us. A silver ball. It was floating in midair and headed straight for us at lightning-fast speed. It stopped three feet in front of my face and bobbed in the air at eye level.