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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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to a golden blond. Her face was tanned, and her eyes were a clear blue. She stood just over five feet.
Lauren rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. "As long as we're telling life stories, I'll give you the condensed version of mine." She looked up at the high, hard ceiling, as if she could see her past up there. "I come from a large family in the Midwest, five brothers and three sisters. The first time I ever played a survival game, it was like a revelation to me."
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
Lauren kicked out at a rat that was creeping near her booted foot. "Oh, it's hard to explain. I guess it was the first time I felt like I'd achieved something on my own."
She stared after the squealing rat. "When you have so many people around you—brothers, sisters—you just feel like you're part of a group. That you've lost your own personal identity."
She looked directly at Joe. "Every time I played at survival, it gave me a feeling of independence. It was something none of my brothers or sisters could or would do. My parents didn't approve of the games. They thought the games were endorsing violence. I thought they were offering freedom." She surveyed the walls glumly. "And for a time, they were. But not anymore."
It was the weirdest dinner party Joe had ever attended.
In the early evening, Brand had visited their cell, inviting the five of them to dine with the colonel.
Not that there was a choice. Brand and several armed guards led them to a large room on the second floor of the fortress. Two guards supported Biff between them. Frank wondered how his friend would be able to sit through the meal.
Hammerlock's inner sanctum was a combination dining room and armory. The walls and floor were decorated with a vast array of weaponry: guns, crossbows, suits of armor, broadswords — a virtual history of weapons collected in one room.
The center of the room was dominated by a long, elegant table, surrounded by high-backed, hand-carved wooden chairs. A sumptuously woven tablecloth covered the entire length. Joe shook his head in amazement at the embroidered scene it depicted: medieval knights charged on horses; samurai warriors attacked with swords; Civil War soldiers battled with bayonets and cannons; and modern soldiers marched with M-16s. There were ornate candlesticks placed along the center of the table, each with a tapered, flickering candle. Seven filigreed metal plates were set out.
Colonel Hammerlock sat at the head of the table, and at his nod orderlies appeared and served dinner. I should have expected this, Joe thought as they placed army ration packages on top of the metal plates.
"Dig in!" the colonel ordered. He immediately ripped open his package, pulled out a can, and attacked the top with a small can opener.
"This tops everything," Terry muttered to Frank.
Joe found the can opener in his package, and pulled out a green painted can labeled Peaches. He cut open the lid. Flecks of paint shredded into the syrup.
"Who designed these things, anyway?" he complained. "Is that paint supposed to add vitamins to my peaches?"
"Stop bellyaching!" Hammerlock ordered through a mouthful of food. "The paint just gives it a little texture." He chomped steadily, swallowed, and looked up at Joe. "I can see you don't have the kind of stamina necessary to be a part of our team."
Frank opened a can of Spam. "And just what team is that? The one you've created by kidnapping teenagers?"
The side of the colonel's face that was not paralyzed twitched. "What we have done is not kidnapping," he said with exaggerated calm. "It is merely the recruitment of a new fighting unit — my fighting unit!"
Joe noticed that Biff was barely eating. The colonel wiped some food from his lip. "True," he admitted after a long moment. "Some members might come unwillingly. Until they learn how their ability for combat — their individual strength—can be used to change the world."
"Then again," Brand interjected, staring at Lauren and
Lauren rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. "As long as we're telling life stories, I'll give you the condensed version of mine." She looked up at the high, hard ceiling, as if she could see her past up there. "I come from a large family in the Midwest, five brothers and three sisters. The first time I ever played a survival game, it was like a revelation to me."
"What do you mean?" Joe asked.
Lauren kicked out at a rat that was creeping near her booted foot. "Oh, it's hard to explain. I guess it was the first time I felt like I'd achieved something on my own."
She stared after the squealing rat. "When you have so many people around you—brothers, sisters—you just feel like you're part of a group. That you've lost your own personal identity."
She looked directly at Joe. "Every time I played at survival, it gave me a feeling of independence. It was something none of my brothers or sisters could or would do. My parents didn't approve of the games. They thought the games were endorsing violence. I thought they were offering freedom." She surveyed the walls glumly. "And for a time, they were. But not anymore."
It was the weirdest dinner party Joe had ever attended.
In the early evening, Brand had visited their cell, inviting the five of them to dine with the colonel.
Not that there was a choice. Brand and several armed guards led them to a large room on the second floor of the fortress. Two guards supported Biff between them. Frank wondered how his friend would be able to sit through the meal.
Hammerlock's inner sanctum was a combination dining room and armory. The walls and floor were decorated with a vast array of weaponry: guns, crossbows, suits of armor, broadswords — a virtual history of weapons collected in one room.
The center of the room was dominated by a long, elegant table, surrounded by high-backed, hand-carved wooden chairs. A sumptuously woven tablecloth covered the entire length. Joe shook his head in amazement at the embroidered scene it depicted: medieval knights charged on horses; samurai warriors attacked with swords; Civil War soldiers battled with bayonets and cannons; and modern soldiers marched with M-16s. There were ornate candlesticks placed along the center of the table, each with a tapered, flickering candle. Seven filigreed metal plates were set out.
Colonel Hammerlock sat at the head of the table, and at his nod orderlies appeared and served dinner. I should have expected this, Joe thought as they placed army ration packages on top of the metal plates.
"Dig in!" the colonel ordered. He immediately ripped open his package, pulled out a can, and attacked the top with a small can opener.
"This tops everything," Terry muttered to Frank.
Joe found the can opener in his package, and pulled out a green painted can labeled Peaches. He cut open the lid. Flecks of paint shredded into the syrup.
"Who designed these things, anyway?" he complained. "Is that paint supposed to add vitamins to my peaches?"
"Stop bellyaching!" Hammerlock ordered through a mouthful of food. "The paint just gives it a little texture." He chomped steadily, swallowed, and looked up at Joe. "I can see you don't have the kind of stamina necessary to be a part of our team."
Frank opened a can of Spam. "And just what team is that? The one you've created by kidnapping teenagers?"
The side of the colonel's face that was not paralyzed twitched. "What we have done is not kidnapping," he said with exaggerated calm. "It is merely the recruitment of a new fighting unit — my fighting unit!"
Joe noticed that Biff was barely eating. The colonel wiped some food from his lip. "True," he admitted after a long moment. "Some members might come unwillingly. Until they learn how their ability for combat — their individual strength—can be used to change the world."
"Then again," Brand interjected, staring at Lauren and
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