Rabbits(10)

“Right,” I said. “?‘Now onward goes along a narrow path, between the torments and the city wall. I follow my master,’ or something like that.”

“Very good,” Scarpio said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I spent half a semester studying Dante’s Inferno. What…I mean, why—?”

“Sorry, I’ve been trying to remember that line all day.”

“Why not just look it up online?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Alan Scarpio smiled and took a sip of coffee, and that’s when I heard the strange creaking and cracking sounds. For a second I thought I saw the lights of the diner flicker in concert with the odd noises, but I couldn’t be sure.

Did talking about Rabbits somehow summon the game’s Wardens into existence? Was Scarpio’s Dante quote some kind of strange evocation?

“What is that sound?” I asked.

“The rhubarb,” he said, and pointed to his phone. “It’s so creepy. Throw a bit of reverb on it and it’s a fucking horror movie soundtrack.”

I nodded. It was definitely creepy.

Scarpio stared at me for a moment, as if he was waiting for something, then he finally smiled.

“Something’s wrong with the game,” he said.

“What do you mean ‘wrong’?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but if we don’t fix it before the next iteration begins, we’re all well and truly fucked.”

At this point, Scarpio’s phone buzzed. He looked down at the small screen. “Excuse me for one second.” He picked up his phone.

“What is it?” he asked.

I watched as most of the color slowly drained from his face.

“Are you sure? Okay, I’ll be right there,” he said and hung up.

“I gotta run,” he said, clearly flustered by the call he’d just received. “Late meeting. Do you mind walking me to my car?”

“No. I mean—”

“I’d like to keep talking for a bit as we walk, if that’s okay with you.”

If Alan Scarpio wanted to keep talking, I’d be walking until my legs gave out.

“Um, sure,” I said.

As we stepped outside, I pulled my collar up against the light rain. Scarpio didn’t seem fazed by the weather at all. He started walking up the street. I hurried to keep up.

“I’m going to tell you everything I know about what’s happening, I promise,” he said. “I just need to get a few things straight first, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Great. So let’s start with my earlier question. What do you know about Rabbits?”



* * *



—

In the brief period of time it took us to walk the few blocks from the diner to Scarpio’s car, I told him everything I knew about the game: how it was a hidden and secret thing, a deep underground obsession, and how, if you weren’t looking for it, you’d most likely never heard of it. That it was reputedly ancient and possibly connected to the Knights Templar, the Illuminati, and the Thule Society. I detailed everything I’d heard about the alleged prizes: NSA or CIA recruitment, billions of dollars, or immortality, and about the list of winners known as The Circle that appeared all over the world, seemingly at random, before and after each new iteration of the game. I went on to tell him all I could remember about the mysterious Hazel, the most famous Rabbits player of all time, who’d supposedly checked out right after they’d won the eighth iteration. I ended with something about how most people who studied the game believed that Alan Scarpio was Californiac, the winner of Six, and that winning the sixth iteration of the game had resulted in his becoming extremely rich overnight.

I looked at Scarpio’s face carefully while I was delivering that last bit of information, but his expression betrayed nothing.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Most people interested in Rabbits believe the game is currently between iterations, and are waiting for the eleventh version to begin.”

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s all I can think of right now,” I said as the two of us finally reached Scarpio’s black Tesla sedan.

“Can we continue this tomorrow? A late breakfast at the diner?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Great.” Scarpio pulled a small black leather case from his pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to me. It had been printed on some kind of thick off-white material, linen or bamboo maybe. On the card was nothing but a phone number.

“Let’s meet back at that diner at eleven tomorrow morning to continue our discussion,” he said. “Give me a call if you have a conflict and we’ll set something else up, but this is important, and I’d really appreciate it if you could make it.”

He got into the car, started it up, and rolled down the driver’s-side window.

“I’ll be there,” I said, working extremely hard to stop myself from grinning like an idiot.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and then he guided the shiny black sedan away from the curb, down the street, and out into the night.

I stood there for a long time after his taillights had faded into the distance, doing my best to digest what had just happened.