Chapter 33

Gavin is in heaven. Rainbow Dave is right there on that stage, not much farther than the TV is from the couch at home. Well, okay, farther than that, but not much because Gavin and his mom have Star Player seats. And theirs are even better than most of the Star Player seats he can see, which are spread around the auditorium; he can spot them by the glowing purple lights on their lizard docking stations.

Dave stands in front of a giant screen that makes everything feel even closer than it is. It’s like being in the game. And in a few minutes, he will be in the game, racing the other lizards in a special obstacle course.

The opening of the show was wicked. Rainbow Dave came out dancing to his theme music with the real Lime the Lizard on his shoulder. Lime even did a bunch of tricks, climbing around the stage and swinging on a mini trapeze!

It’s hard to believe that a digital lizard could be more exciting than that, but an army of digital lizards? And the one at the head of the pack with Gavin’s name on it? It’s going to be so cool.

Things almost got boring while Dave talked them through the log-in instructions, but the light on the dock jutting out of Gavin’s iPad lit up just like Dave said it would. He’s staring at it right now, basking in the cool purple halo surrounding his lizard figurine.

Dave is telling a story about the Rainbow Realm they’re about to enter. About how life can seem like it’s raining all the time, but they don’t need to be sad when it’s like that because the Rainbow Realm is right around the corner. Gavin’s mom puts her hand on his knee when Dave says that. He hopes she’s having fun, too. She needs a rainbow reminder as much as he does lately, with all the sadness about Daddy.

Gavin can feel the hope Dave is trying to give them and it feels so bright. He’s proud to have earned his place here today as a Star Player, but he also feels lucky to be here. It’s like some of Rainbow Dave’s luck rubbed off on him. He would be too afraid of jinxing it to say it aloud, not even to Jacob, but he feels like maybe that luck will be enough to bring Daddy home.

It’s weird, but he feels like Daddy is with him now, in the theater, that he is somehow connected to the Rainbow Realm. Gavin still isn’t sure why he kept it to himself, but he knows Daddy gave him advice about the game on that FaceTime chat. Something to look for: three triangles. And a way to win: make five.

Deep down, where he won’t let himself look for too long, he’s afraid that Daddy would have to be dead to know all that. A ghost. But no, you can’t FaceTime when you’re dead. It’s all connected and it’s all going to work out.

His mother’s hand moves from his knee, and she twists in her seat. She’s talking to someone in the aisle. Gavin cranes past her and sees that it’s Lucy, with Jacob at her side looking absolutely miserable. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but he looks like he’s been crying.

Mom digs in her purse and hands Lucy her car keys. As soon as she has them, Lucy jogs up the aisle after Jacob, who is clearly on a mission.

“What was that?” Gavin says into his mother’s ear, dividing his attention between Dave—now standing in front of a swarm of swirling black feathers on the giant screen—and her reply.

“Jacob can’t find his lizard,” she says. “It was in his pocket, but he must have dropped it somewhere. It’s probably still in the backseat.”

Gavin’s eyes pop at the news. The ushers only needed to scan the docking stations for their seats, so Jacob wouldn’t have noticed his lizard was missing until he realized it wasn’t in his pocket. Now he’s going to miss the best part of the show. Gavin’s heart aches for his friend. Part of him wants to go and help Jacob find his lizard, but it’s not as strong as the part that doesn’t want to miss the game, the action that’s about to happen any minute. He feels really bad for Jacob, but there’s no reason for both of them to miss it.

Behind them, a rumble passes through the crowd, and for an instant, Gavin thinks they’re all making disappointed groans for Jacob having to leave. But when he looks over his shoulder, he sees the real reason for the commotion: amid a sea of icy pale faces underlit by tablet screens, the purple circles of the Star Player docks are winking out.

Gavin looks at his own dock in his lap, still glowing. He looks at Dave, expecting him to smile and say, “Gotcha!” But the star of the show looks just as confused as everyone else. Worse, Gavin sees something new on Dave’s face, so alien that it takes him a few heartbeats to recognize it.

Rainbow Dave looks angry.

* * *

Andy stands at the edge of the balcony, cradling his laptop and watching the purple lights winking out below. A murmur of discontent rumbles through the crowd. It’s a weird sound, a groan comprised mostly of children’s voices. He looks around, scanning the balcony. Dave hasn’t placed any Star Players up here. Why would he need to when the balcony overhangs the orchestra seats? The lizards down there will take this whole section down with them, sending any survivors tumbling into the rubble and flame below. There is still a part of him that hasn’t fully committed to believing what Len told him, and yet there’s something about the mystical bullshit Dave is spouting from the stage that makes his skin prickle with unease.

He sees the husky silhouette of the usher passing through the door in a wedge of pale light. On his laptop, there are still tablets hanging onto the network. He has knocked out all of RDX2 and most of RDX1. But three purple lights are still glowing down there in the dark. Is one of them Gavin? The clock at the top of the screen reads twenty past three.

Dave’s voice booms through the microphone. “Okay, we seem to be having a little problem. Some of you guys are falling off the network. Everybody check your connection in the settings, like I showed you before. I don’t want anybody to miss out on this. We are getting to the best part. I want to see those purple lights coming back on for my Star Players.”

Andy knew the script might fail to knock every last device off. Will Dave still execute his plan if only three lizards are connected? Or will he save it for the second show of the tour, a show that never would have happened if tonight had gone according to plan?

He clicks on a texting window. Len’s number is already queued up for the next message. Thank God he can type faster on a laptop than a phone.

AS: Did you call the police? Don’t think I can stop it.

Hands trembling, he selects another contact: Jessica. Stepping backwards away from the circle of light lapping at the stairs from the usher’s flashlight, Andy types as fast as he can with one hand:

AS: I’m in the theater. IMPORTANT unplug dock from pad. Can you see a box on stage w antenna?

His cursor hovers over the send button. This could be his last chance to warn her. He wants to tell her to get up and get Gavin out. But if Gavin is holding the last illuminated dock and Dave sees a panicked woman throwing it away and racing her son to the exit, what will he do?

Andy spots an empty seat and sits in it, slouching down low, just another silhouette looking at a screen. He hits send and scans what he can see of the crowd in the orchestra seats below, absurdly searching for Jessica’s cell phone amid a sea of tablets. Only two purple circles glow amid the white rectangles down there now, but the lizard at the center of each will claim how many lives?

On the giant screen behind Dave, a sparkling trail of gold blazes a looping beeline and comes to rest, hovering beside the YouTuber at head height. He looks genuinely surprised, but it’s hard to tell if the reaction is just theatrics.

“Wow, what’s this?” Dave says to the crowd. “It’s my Tinkerbell alarm! Did you guys know that I love fairies?”

A scattering of laughter passes through the crowd.

“Actually, I love fairy tales. Like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Do you all know that one?”

The kids murmur and clap uncertainly, unsure where this is going.

“Well, I created this fairy to alert me if anyone messes with my stuff while I’m away from home. Like when Goldilocks sneaks into the bears’ house while they’re away.”

Dave walks over to his laptop and types a key combination. On the projection screen behind him, Tinkerbell disappears and the Rainblocks background is replaced with a wide-angle shot of an attractive brick townhouse with a clapboard second story. The house is set against a backdrop of woods, and the angle looks like it could be from a camera mounted on a tree in the front yard. There are no people in the frame, but a Prius is parked in the driveway.

“This is my house, guys! I’m sure some of you have seen it in my vlogs. I thought it would be safe while I was away, but I’m afraid a gremlin got in. Do you guys know what a gremlin is? They get into machines like computers and wreck everything. And we can’t let that happen, can we?”

The kids boo at the gremlin they can’t see.

“We can’t let a gremlin run amok in my house! It’s a nice house, right? It’s nice, but it’s only made of bricks and wood and spare pixels. It’s not as important as the game world where I get to hang out with all of you. And we can’t let a gremlin get into the game world, no way. So… should I use the self-destruct? Should I blow it up? Let me hear just the parents. Who thinks I should blow up my house?”

A subdued cheer with scattered clapping goes up. Andy looks around and sees that even the adults who aren’t hooting are smiling. The guy really is a gifted showman.

“Now let’s hear the kids. Just the kids. Who thinks I should blow up my house?”

The roar is phenomenal.

“Haha! I knew it. I knew it. Because you guys know how much fun it is to build something and then blow it up. Grownups have forgotten that. I’m sorry, grownups, but you have. You’ve forgotten the joy of destruction. It’s what happens when you’re too worried about losing money.”

Andy doesn’t have to look around to know how many parents are thinking of what today’s tickets cost them, and he’s only half-hearing it, anyway. He doesn’t know what kind of car Len drives, but the knot of dread in his stomach tells him it’s a Prius. He glances at the pool of light bobbing on the balcony floor where the usher stands, trying to search the crowd without shining it in anyone’s eyes, and types another text to Len:

AS: GET OUT NOW

“When I bought this house, people said, ‘You’re a grownup now. You own a house.’ And I thought, well, that’s sad. What if I don’t want to be a grownup? What if I want to play forever? What about you guys? Do you want to play forever?”

The kids cheer.

“Do you want to blow up this house?”

They whoop and scream with delight.

“WHY GROW UP WHEN YOU CAN LEVEL UP? Watch this!”

Dave raises his index finger and stabs it at the keyboard.

Andy feels the wind knocked out of him at the sight of what every other adult in the room probably thinks is prerecorded SFX footage. The second story of the house erupts in a cloud of orange fire and debris, wood brick and glass pelting the camera. The angle tilts backward at the sky, as the tree the camera is affixed to topples over from the force of the blast. Black smoke stains the blue for a second before the screen goes dark to wild applause.

“No more gremlin!”

The usher’s flashlight beam finds Andy. He snaps his laptop shut and slides out of the seat, heading for the stairs. There’s someone else beside the usher—a security guard. A stocky guy with a crewcut, blazer and badge. The usher steps aside and points at Andy. The guard approaches, claps a firm hand on Andy’s biceps, thumb and forefinger digging into the muscle. “You need to come with me, sir.”

No more time for bullshit stories. Andy pulls his arm free and shoves the guy with a palm to the center of his chest. Andy is taller, but the guard is stronger; he hardly moves. The laptop spills from the crook of Andy’s arm and hits the floor. Parents are stirring in the seats closest to him, shielding their children from the altercation.

“You’re interfering with the show, sir. You need to come with me now.”

Shoving the guard didn’t put much distance between them, but it freed Andy from the man’s grip, granting him just enough time and space to choose between the fallen laptop and the possibility of escape. He chooses the latter, turning and running along the balcony’s low wall to another aisle of steps leading to an exit door. He has to get to the stage. He feels a hand grabbing at his shirt as he mounts the landing at the top of the stairs, raises a knee and kicks out blindly behind him, sending the guard tumbling backward with a grunt.

Through the brightly lit mezzanine behind the balcony, Andy races down the staircase to the lobby. The big usher crashes out of the far door at the top of the parallel main stairs, then locks eyes on him and gives chase.

Taking the carpeted stairs two at a time, Andy feels the exhilaration of an adrenaline flood, the tide of stress hormones receding under the power of a body in motion in full survival mode. Or is it sacrifice mode? Because he’s not fleeing the danger but running toward it. This is fight, not flight.

It’s an alien experience for him, and with it comes intoxication surging over his fear; a sensation of dissociation from his huffing, puffing, sweating body. Time slows down and everything comes into sharper focus—every stain on the carpet, every hairline crack in the wall. He sees a woman leading a child by the hand across the lobby. Not Jessica and Gavin, but—if it’s not a trick of his jacked-up mind—she says Jessica’s name to the boy. “…probably in Jessica’s car,” she says, pushing the glass door to the street open.

The fleeting scene strikes him with a feeling of eerie coincidence or dream logic, but he’s not swimming or dreaming; he’s running. And the one thing he can’t do now is slow down.

For a moment up there on the balcony, trying to get his stubborn brain to accept that his computer code wasn’t going to stop Dave, he could feel how easy it would be to give in to the paralysis of fear. The guard snapped him out of that, and now that he’s in motion, there’s a weird absence of fear. It’s as if he’s watching a movie of himself sprinting across the lobby and shouldering through the double doors to the orchestra seats.

This confidence, of a body in motion with all circuits lit, lasts for less than a minute, but it’s long enough to make him hit the door hard and fly through it with the force and conviction of a linebacker. Someone spins and tries to grab at him—another usher or guard? Doesn’t matter. He’s already pounding down an aisle toward the stage.

He doesn’t have a plan. His rational mind is blowing fuses trying to come up with one before he reaches the stage. There may be power and speed and ungodly confidence in running pell-mell at a threat, unhampered by details, but wait, some primal voice protests. He’s younger, stronger. Don’t attack from below. You’ll take a boot to the teeth trying to heave yourself up there.

He cuts to the right at a wide break in the seating sections and then he’s shouldering past a flustered female usher and passing through a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT, hurtling down a white corridor past folded risers and spare lighting cans hung from a sprinkler pipe, up a triplet of stairs and through a stage door, nearly tripping over coils of cables amid shouting voices distant and dim, his vision and hearing tunneling as his consciousness narrows to a single imperative.

Find the router. Kill the router.

The stage lights flare between curtains and hanging ropes. If he makes it onto the stage without getting tackled, he might knock Dave over, might scream like a lunatic at everyone to run. And security might drag him away while Dave taps a final key.

Where’s the router?

He could throw himself at Dave’s computer on the metal desk, but attacking it might set it off, and you can’t kill a laptop by yanking the power cord.

He’s fucked. They all are. It’s too late. His rational mind is back at the wheel, and it has bad news: not only is he going to die here, so are Gavin and Jessica. So are a lot of these innocent kids.

Then he spots little green LEDs flashing from a box on a shelf unit beside the curtain. A box with two antennae jutting out of the top. Andy blinks sweat out of his eyes, his heart approaching a rate that is unsustainable for a desk jockey.

Router?

No. That’s audio signal, those lights. A wireless microphone receiver for the headset mic Dave is using to address the crowd. A row of wireless handheld microphones is laid out on the shelf beside the unit.

Interference. Radio interference. It might be enough to jam the remaining signal.

Andy grabs a pair of the handheld mics, feeling for switches on the barrels. He drops each mic after flicking its switch and grabs another pair from the shelf. A series of booming sounds echo from the theater ceiling and his heart jumps into his throat before he realizes these aren’t explosions he’s hearing, but the sound of the microphones he’s dropping thundering through the house speakers.

Six are on. Eight. Nine. He starts kicking the ones on the floor under the shelf unit, tossing others randomly into the curtains, making it harder for anyone to gather them all and switch them off. And then hands are seizing him from behind, dragging him away from the rack.

Gripping the last mic in his clenched fist, Andy swings wildly and lands a hook to the side of some guy’s head. It’s a clumsy punch, but reinforced by the steel barrel of the mic, it drops the guard with a percussive pop! from the sound system.

Andy staggers between the thick black curtains toward the stage. He’s not even looking at Dave or scanning for the router anymore. His eyes are hungry for the crowd, desperate to see a field of shadows devoid of purple lights.

“Please,” he says to no one, “let it be enough.” Let the network be down.

A squeal of feedback sings a song of agony like silverware hitting a sore tooth.

And then he sees it: a purple light. There’s still one connected dock out there glowing in the dark. Someone grabs him in a bear hug and hoists his feet off the floor.

* * *

Something’s gone wrong, but Rainbow Dave can’t figure out what. It’s all falling apart, turning to chaos. But not the kind of chaos he wants to invoke right now to blow a hole through this flat reality and sweep his flock through to the other side with him.

The lights are going out. It’s down to one dock, the one closest to the stage, and he’s frozen, pinned in the spotlight and unable to decide if he should tap his keyboard and detonate that one lizard or wait. Wait for the others to come back online and risk losing the one?

The bar clock at the foot of the stage proclaims 3:33 in blazing red digits.

The kids are grumbling, watching him lose control, watching him stand there slack-jawed, like an idiot.

Percussion rumbles through the overhead speakers and stage monitors like falling boulders. Dave flinches. Feedback squeals in his ears and the audience recoils. Children echo the sound with shrieks. Parents groan.

“It’s okay, everybody,” Dave says. But it isn’t. He catches motion out of the corner of his eye. There’s a man flailing around in the curtains, struggling with someone, holding something. A gun?

Dave steps back from the edge of the stage where he’s been squinting into the spotlight scanning for illuminated docks. He retreats to his workstation, crouching to shelter behind the steel desk.

Lime scurries across the back of the swivel chair and up onto one of the hanging triangles through which the beams of a yellow stage light rotate lazily in the haze from a fog machine. If even one dock is still armed by the Wi-Fi connection, he can trigger the detonator chip in that lizard. The lizard doesn’t even need to be on the dock, just close enough for the Near Field Com signal to reach it.

It’s not the spectacular climax he wanted; it won’t liberate enough of the children from this lower realm.

But… the signal from one dock might be enough to set off other lizards, if they’re in range. It’s a long shot, but it’s time to commit or abort the mission.

Time to do it before he gets shot.

He turns and looks at his own image projected on the giant screen. Looming over his digital doppelgänger is a figure only he can see: a humanoid mosaic of black glass and white flesh. A kaleidoscope of roving bloodshot eyes. It needs blood to open the way.

In the curtains, the man struggling with the guard raises the gray metal barrel to his own face and Dave sees that it’s not a gun—it’s a microphone.

And now a woman is stepping through the spotlight glare at the foot of the stage, reaching into a handbag. Behind her, a boy stands in the aisle, his face quivering with confusion, clutching a lizard to his chest.

Dave knows him.

“Gavin. My best and brightest.” Dave’s voice is kind. And it’s not an act. He’s talking only to the one boy, though his words are picked up by the headset mic and reverberate throughout the theater. He feels real affection for this one. He wants to whisk him away from a world of pain into the Rainbow Realm. Into the Zone.

“Do you want to wake up from this sad, mad world with me, Gavin?”

The woman’s hand remains concealed in her purse.

A voice booms through the speakers: “Jessica! The lizards are bombs!”