Countdown. Michelle RowenЧитать онлайн книгу.
“One moment.”
Every muscle in my body was tense and ready to run, but instead I waited, standing silently in place. After a couple of minutes, a small door in the wall to my right opened up, and the silver ball camera left the room. The door closed behind it.
“What happened?” I said.
“Countdown is now on an official break,” Jonathan explained. “We have a little time to prep you for your next level.”
“I won’t last another level,” Rogan said.
Jonathan nodded. “I know. I’ve been monitoring your vitals.”
He left the room briefly and returned with a white box.
“Sit,” he instructed, and Rogan sat down in a white chair next to him.
I swear, everything in the entire room was white and scrubbed immaculately clean. It felt like a hospital—or, at least, the kind I’d once seen in an old movie.
Jonathan pushed away the material that covered Rogan’s wound. Then with no sound from the murderer other than a pained groan, Jonathan cleaned the wound and sprayed it with some sort of colorless substance. The skin around the cut turned a sick shade of green.
“Ah,” Jonathan breathed, peering closer. “The knife they used on you was tipped with calcine poison.”
“That would explain why I feel like my insides are melting,” Rogan grumbled. “Because they are.”
“What’s happening?” I demanded again. My fists were clenched so tightly at my sides that my fingernails dug painfully into the palms of my hands. Instead of relaxing, I let it happen. The pain helped me stay focused.
“What does it look like?” Jonathan asked, glancing up at me.
“Why are you helping him?”
“Kira,” Rogan growled. “Didn’t you hear the part about my insides melting?”
“But—”
“I can’t play this damn game if I have melting insides. Do you get that?”
“Of course I get that. But why is he helping you? Doesn’t he work for the damn game?”
“I do.” Jonathan nodded. “But that doesn’t mean I always agree with their idea of entertainment.”
With a syringe, he injected a blue-colored solution into Rogan’s shoulder. Rogan clenched his jaw. “That should be enough antidote to halt the damage and hopefully reverse it. You’re not going to feel great, but you’ll feel a lot better than you have.” He peered at the now clean wound. “The antidote will also help the wound knit rapidly. You shouldn’t require any stitches.”
“Thanks.” Rogan pulled away from Jonathan the moment he was finished.
He seemed oddly at ease with the man—as if they’d already met.
Jonathan closed the box. “Are you well, young lady?”
“Am I well?” I repeated. “No, I am not well. I want out of this game right now.”
“That’s not possible. But you’re doing fine so far. I anticipate that you will last several more levels.” He looked away.
My breath hitched. Could I fight him to escape from this place? If I had to? “I don’t belong here.”
“None of us belong here, Kira,” he said wearily. “Sometimes we need to do the best with what we’re given.”
“I would have to disagree with you there,” Rogan said.
Jonathan looked at him sharply. “Time has a tendency to change many things, Rogan.”
“Not as many as you might think. But time does have a way of making things a lot clearer.”
“If you say so.”
Rogan glowered at him. “I do.”
I watched their exchange with growing certainty. “Do you two know each other?”
Rogan flicked a glance at me. “No.”
Like hell they didn’t. I wasn’t that blind. Before I could ask any more questions, he turned to Jonathan.
“Are you going to get in trouble for fixing me?”
Jonathan didn’t answer the question. “We need to talk about level three.”
“I’d rather have a long nap in a comfortable bed,” Rogan said with a humorless snort.
“I’m sure you would. And you’re partially in luck. Since the broadcast is on a break, you’ve just entered a mandatory rest period.”
Rogan’s throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s not necessary.”
“I thought you said you wanted a nap?”
“On my own terms, yeah.”
Jonathan pressed a button on the wall and another holoscreen appeared in the middle of the room. The image of an average-looking man flickered into focus. “This is Bernard Jones. He is forty years old, has been married for fifteen years, and has one child. He makes his living as an accountant. He has dreams of moving to the Colony with his family and opening a restaurant there.”
My heart jumped into my throat. Another mention of the Colony. I was starting to believe it really existed—somewhere. Sometimes I wondered if it might just be a rumor.
“Sounds like a fun guy,” I said, trying to shield my interest in the secret city. “So, what are we supposed to do, get him to do our taxes?”
“No. To successfully complete level three you are required to assassinate him.”
My mouth dropped open. “Assassinate him?”
“That’s right. There will be no weapons provided for this level. You will have to use whatever means are available to locate and eliminate this target. You will be informed on your timeline once the level begins. That’s all I can tell you. I wish you good luck.”
Rogan was frowning. “Jonathan, there has to be some way out of this. You have to let me speak to—” He broke off and yelled, clutching his head. The next moment he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
I watched him fall and then raised my horrified gaze to Jonathan.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
I opened my mouth to say something, I wasn’t even sure what; but before I got out a word, the lightning-fast pain ripped through my brain and everything went black.
LEVEL THREE
Chapter 5
I OPENED MY eyes slowly and blinked until everything came back into focus. Along with my vision, my anger returned in full force.
I absolutely hated the idea of somebody out there with their finger on a little button that could cause me pain like that. However, I did like the idea of finding whoever was in charge of that little button and giving their groin a nice, sharp introduction to my knee.
My head hurt. Badly. But at least I still seemed to be in one piece.
I glanced around and realized I was somewhere more populated. Not another empty, clinical room. I could hear voices. There was a faint sound of clothes swishing and rubbing together as a few people passed, nearby but out of sight.
There was a heavy weight pressing on my shoulder, and I slowly realized that it was Rogan—specifically his head. He was still out cold and currently using me as a pillow. We were both sprawled against a wall like a couple of homeless people. Pretty accurate, really. But this wasn’t the street. Linoleum tile felt smooth and cool against my hands. We were inside. Somewhere.
I know this place.