“He drained your bank account. He busted your face. He almost killed your cat I don’t know how many times. Who gives a shit if that prick loses his?—”
We squeezed under the door, entering the small utility room, which cut off the conversation. There was a line of three gates in a row. A disintegration trap, a teleport trap, and the gate. I pointed to the correct one.
“What the hell?” I muttered, seeing the stacked washer and dryer in the utility room. I hadn’t known any of the apartments had come with them. A sudden weird sense of outrage filled me.
And then I was struck with how absurd it was to even think that as I tossed more explosives onto the ground.
Gate Six of Seven cleared.
Donut had gone silent, looking back toward the door. “Carl, do you remember when the police were at the apartment like three days in a row, blocking the door, and Miss Beatrice gotmad because they stopped her from going inside? She called her dad and told him to do something?”
“I remember,” I said. I’d been at work, and she’d called me, too. It had been a Monday morning, and Bea had just driven back from a cat show somewhere. She’d been stuck outside for, like, five minutes. And then the cops were there the next two days in a row. Bea had started moaning about us living in a “crime-ridden slum.” Mrs. Parsons had told me it was something to do with Marjory, but I hadn’t told that to Bea because she already hated the woman because Gravy Boat was always outside in the tree, harassing Donut.
And then I remembered something Ferdinand had said to me on the previous floor about a guy named Bill. The pieces were all coming together.
But what was the what-if scenario here? Was it “What if Marjory stayed away from this Bill guy”? I didn’t know, and we didn’t have time to wait around and find out. One more apartment to go.
Jurgen: If anyone is on the first floor, I need help. Apartment 130.
Carl: We’re just leaving apartment 231. What’s the problem?
Jurgen: It’s Prepotente. His mother is here, and she’s playing the piano. I’m leading Sweety, but he has jumped off, and I can’t get him back on. The air is toxic, but he has that immunity. I only have one dose of splooge to go grab him.
I exchanged a look with Donut. We didn’t know where the other teams were. We wereprobablyin first place, but we didn’t know.
Carl: Osvaldo, what floor are you on?
Osvaldo: We’re on the first floor. About to cross the finish line.
Fucking hell,I thought.
Carl: Jurgen, we’re on our way.
Fuck, fuck, fuck,fuuuuuck.
We didn’t know where everybody else was. If Osvaldo really was about to cross the finish line, it meant we could be in second place. Or third. Or even fourth. I didn’t know.
I didn’t know, and that wasn’t good enough.
Goddamnit. God-fucking-damnit.
I looked at Donut. She knew what I was asking.
She nodded.
I needed to help Prepotente and Jurgen. They were our friends. How many times had they come to our aid? But we couldn’t risk coming in last place, either.
I pulled up my explosives menu, scrolled to thePrimedsubtab, and found the detonator I was looking for.
Fuck everything about this place.
“Forgive me, friends,” I whispered.
I clickedDetonate.
Team Free Love has been eliminated due to the death of both racers. Three teams remain in the current heat.
We’d had Samantha roll into the cul-de-sac earlier and distract the two bugbears while I used myOozy Formspell for the first time. I’d slid up and replaced one of the Peach-flavored beers with the one they’d given me earlier. I’d drilled out the can and replaced it with a hidden explosive. I’d built it in my bomber’s studio, and it would be especially hidden. One had to have a level 12 or higher Find Traps skill to notice it, even if they picked the can up. And since the magical cooler teleported itself back into their van after every race, it’d been a relatively simple way to add a fail-safe if we ever found ourselves in a situation where it was possible we’d come in last.