Olympus: It's Not Just a Game

Chapter 4

The mall was emptying out for the night. Weary clerks hid behind the shelves and displays, hoping the last stragglers wouldn't find what they were looking for. Footsore shoppers trudged toward the parking lot. But the video arcade was still jammed with kids scrambling for a few last moments of action before night pulled the plug.

Bright flags and fake flowers decorated all three stories of the mall, and even at ten p.m., its vaulted spaces were lit brighter than day. But the arcade door was like the entrance to a dark cavern, tucked back out of the way on the lowest floor. From the arcade's depths came beeps and boops and death rattles. Intense young faces hung in the darkness within, lit from below by phosphorescence. Some vidiots were still shoving their dollar coins into the games three minutes before closing time.

One thin face glowed under a tousled mop of sandy-brown hair, green eyes glittering in the flickering lights. Behind him, to his left and right, were two other faces, one coarse and red, one pale and almost blue. These two cheered him on.

"Get him, Wheeler," urged the pale one. His eyes shone in the luminescent light. He looked ominously like a vampire.

"Yeah, mash 'em, smash 'em," shouted the other.

Wheeler worked the controls with a surgeon's skill. Or perhaps he was more like a concert pianist, playing some strange new instrument that produced shrieks and thuds. He sat in a wheelchair. The chair itself was on a platform specially built for that purpose. It had been raised just to the right height to play the game. He did not believe in wasting money; he had put his coin into the slot almost an hour ago and had accumulated enough extra lives and bonus points to play until dawn. But that could not be, for the darkness of the arcade was shattered as the house lights went up and the manager called out, "Time, please! Mall's closing. Time to go home!"

Wheeler's two fans complained bitterly, cursing at the manager. But their hero sighed resignedly, let go of the controls, and watched his character in the game die a dozen passive deaths. Then he backed his wheelchair carefully down the ramp. His red-faced friend looked at his watch. "Oh, man!" he groaned. "Look at the time, Rad! My old man's gonna kill me!"

"You say that every night, Mad," retorted Rad. "You aren't dead yet." They scampered out of the arcade, leaving Wheeler and the manager behind.

The manager was shutting down machines and emptying out the coins into a heavy canvas bag. The boy in the wheelchair was the last customer. The manager ignored him for a while, but finally spoke. "Your mom's pretty late tonight, kid."

"I can leave," Wheeler answered quickly. "I'll go out to the parking lot."

"No, no," the man replied. "She'll get here. I don't want her worrying about you."

"I can take care of myself," the crippled boy retorted. But their conversation was interrupted by the sound of heels clicking down the empty corridors of the mall. A tall, red-haired woman in her thirties hurried into view and broke into a relieved smile when she saw the boy.

"There you are, Simon!" she said. "I thought you might have given up on me. I'm real sorry, Jack," she apologized to the manager. "But there was this one customer who took all night to make up her mind, and she wasn't about to let a little thing like closing time make it up for her!" Her tasteful clothing concealed the fact that she was house detective for the largest department store at the mall.

"It's no problem, Sheila," he answered. "You've got a good kid here."

"Thanks, though," she said gratefully.