“You look terrible.”
“Thanks. We have to cover Annabelle.” I edge up to see her tottering awkwardly among slender tree
trunks, completely exposed. Andy is gallantly leaping after her. The flag is an orange scrap in the distance.
I’m up and running, Joshua behind me. I fall behind a boulder and spot Marnie on the opposing team.
Raising my gun, I fire off a couple of rounds, clipping her in the shoulder. She says a disappointed, “Aw,”
and walks off.
When I look at Joshua he looks mildly impressed. “Badass.”
Annabelle is out of sight. The air is filled with cracks, pops, and cries of pain. After a few short runs, I find Andy kneeling on the ground trying to tie his boot lace with a big splat of paint on his chest.
“Oh, Andy!”
He looks up at me with the weary eyes of a Vietnam vet who knows he’s about to die, blood geysering from a pulpy stomach wound. He grasps at my knee. “Go save her.”
He has been watching too many action movies, but so have I judging by the swell of responsibility and protectiveness inside me. I will save Annabelle.
“I’m going to get a Coke,” Andy tells me, ruining the moment.
I keep running. My breath feels short and I’m fogging my goggles a little. I hear a crack and jump behind a pyramid of barrels, which drum with the sound of shots. I look down. Nothing on me so far. I assume I’d feel it. I check the backs of my legs.
“You’re clear,” Joshua calls. I look over at him, crouched nearby behind a big tree stump. He’s holding his paintball gun in a cool way, pointed straight at the sky. I try to copy him and begin to drop it.
“Dork,” he comments unnecessarily. He must have strong wrists.
“Shut up.”
Annabelle is crouched behind a miserable, suicidal sapling. I watch her raise her gun and take out Matt from the opposition. I let out a yelp of delight and she turns and gives me the thumbs-up, grinning widely as she waves me forward. The flag is fluttering about thirty yards away. She is abruptly shot in the center of her back and yips in pain. I don’t need to even look at Joshua to know that he is shaking his head at me.
“Off you go then. I’ll protect you. Just you and me now, buddy. Age before beauty.”
“Great. I’m a dead man.” He makes the short run to my barrel hideout and checks his ammo, glancing over his shoulder.
“Were your parents in the military?” It would explain a lot. The rigid behaviors, the brisk, impersonal manner. Addiction to rules and sequences. His neatness and economy in everything he does. He’s now got a lack of friends and the inability to connect. I bet his parents had frequent foreign postings. He bounces a quarter off his perfectly made bed.
“No,” he tells me, checking my gun for me. “They’re doctors. Surgeons. Well, they were.”
“Are they dead? You’re an . . . orphan?”
“Am I what? They’re retired. Alive and well.”
“Huh. Are you from here?” The tip of my gun is resting in the dirt. I’m too tired. I hope I get shot. I need a rest.
“Only me and my brother live in the city.” He frowns at me and taps my gun with his. “Hold your gun up.”
“There’s two of you? Heaven help us.” I try to obey but my arms are watery.
“You’ll be pleased to know we’re nothing alike.”
“Do you see him much?”
“No.” He assesses the course in front of us.
“Why not?”
“None of your business.” Sheesh.
I can see Danny in the distance stalking through the trees in the skirmish happening on the next rotation over, a dividing rope between us. I give him a wave and he lifts a hand in response, a smile spreading.
Joshua raises his gun and shoots him twice on the back of the thigh with sharpshooter accuracy, then sniffs derisively.
“What gives? I’m not against you,” Danny shouts. He calls out to his flag marshal and resumes, this time with a slight limp.
“That was unnecessary, Joshua. Very bad sportsmanship.”
We begin to move forward, and he’s bent low at the waist, surprisingly light on his feet as he sidesteps a volley of shots, bumping me backward behind a tree. The flag is dangling close by, but there are still two of our opponents out there.