Gamers Con: The First Zak Steepleman Novel by Dave Bakers Page A

flexible tape to mark out the queue.
    I’m pretty sure that I ducked under the tape a few times too.
    I only had eyes for the opening out ahead.
    The opening which, I knew, led to the concourse where the rest of my group would be meeting up for the Second Round.
    Finally, I reached the gap, peered through it, saw the group of people—gamers—streaming off following after a purple-shirt.
    They were down a level.
    I needed to head along a downward-sloping ramp to reach them.
    I ploughed onwards, not caring about where I was putting my feet now.
    I couldn’t help but smile.
    Just a little.
    Because I knew that I was going to catch them up.
    And maybe that was my mistake—thinking that I’d done it—perhaps that was the reason why I’d stopped thinking about where I was putting my feet and I felt my toes smash into something solid, felt myself hurtling through the air, tumbling over and over, seemingly without stopping.
    And landing on the hard— hard —floor with a sickening thump .

 
     
     
    21
     
     
    I THINK, for a couple of moments at least, I might’ve blacked out.
    When I found myself on the ground, just about every single one of my big bones cried out in pain.
    I held my eyes shut.
    I could hear voices all around me.
    People calling for help.
    Stuff like that.
    And then there was a voice.
    A solitary voice . . . familiar .
    Those strange, echoing, almost booming tones.
    “Zak?”
    Finally, I opened my eyes, blinked away as much of the pain as I could manage . . . and really didn’t make all that good a job of it . . . still, I found myself, bleary-eyed, staring up at the invigilator from the Ignition Tournament . . . my brain flooded like a car engine for a couple of moments, it just wouldn’t turn over . . . what was his name?
    And then it struck me, right as I tried—and failed —to respond to him.
    Harold.
    I took in his features, his spindly body, the way his throat stuck out. And that wispy, weird sort of beard-thing that he had going on his chin.
    And, of course, his dark-purple polo shirt.
    He was crouched over me, a hand supporting him against the hard, well-polished floor. “Zak?” he said again.
    I blinked again and the image before me came just a little clearer.
    I noticed that there were others surrounding him—the other gamers.
    And, for some reason, my brain saw fit to pick out one of the faces in particular.
    The face of the Chinese kid—Chung Wen.
    Chung stood among them, a smudge smaller than the guys in their twenties and thirties.
    He wore a neutral expression. His sleek, black hair was parted to one side. And I wondered— dizzily —if his mother had styled it that way.
    “Zak? Can you hear me?” Harold said, his eyes wide, and mouth remaining latched open in shock even though he had nothing else to say.
    I reached about me. Felt the solid ground with my elbows down at my side.
    Gently, taking extreme care, I attempted to prop myself up.
    Pain flushed right through me.
    It started at my bones and pounded its way up to the surface of my skin where it seemed to be trying to needle its way out.
    I gritted my teeth, told myself not to pay attention to it.
    Harold held out his hand for me to grab.
    I took it off him.
    Together, we hauled my bulk back up onto my feet.
    I stood there for a couple of moments, swaying a little.
    Harold acted fast, seized hold of my forearm so that I wouldn’t topple right the way over.
    Now that I was standing up, I seemed to get at least some sort of control over my senses.
    Or, at least, I found that I was able to somehow zone in on just where the pain was at its worst—at its most intense .
    My left wrist.
    That was where it really ached.
    I also noticed a dull throb at my knee, but that was all.
    As if he’d anticipated my thoughts, Harold said, still gripping tight to my forearm, “You fell on your wrist—as you went over.”
    Not wanting to make any sudden movements because it sent a bone-shattering pain right through me, forced me to grind