The Shipwreck: An Official Minecraft Novel Page 2

  Hopefully they’ll get connection soon. Jake can play offline, but he definitely will want to work on his most recent build in their server at some point. Jake’s put in too much work mining quartz to build a replica of the Roman Colosseum to let it go unfinished.

  Jake lies on his stomach and starts Minecraft. The familiar music cues up, a trilling welcome, a call to anticipation, discovery, and excitement. Jake selects Singleplayer and scans through his older worlds. He could open up any one of these and have a good time—there’s the one with the half-finished Eiffel Tower, the one where he’s gotten super into enchanting and all the best weapons and armor, the one where he’s mapped out entire continents and discovered monuments and strongholds. Each of these worlds is special. No matter where he is in the real world, what city he’s in, what school he’s going to with new rules and new people and new cliques to figure out, he can always count on Minecraft.

  Here the rules are steady: A log always yields four planks, four planks always make a crafting table, and you can always deconstruct something to its bare building essentials. Here, Jake is in control. He decides what stays, what goes, where he travels to, and what the places he spends time in will look like.

  Jake taps on Create New World and smiles. He’s home.

  * * *

  —

  Jake spawns in a forest biome, filled with pixelated flowers and trees. He wastes no time getting what he needs to survive his first night. He’s done this so many times before, but it never fails to amuse him, how adept he is at gathering resources; it’s old hat now, and by the time night falls in the game, he’s built a shelter and is safe from the zombies prowling about. He waits for the sun to rise and keeps moving.

  Jake’s tempted to explore until he finds a picturesque spot to build a base, but it’ll be smarter to gather what resources he can rather than just wandering around and making no progress. He builds a temporary hideout close to a mountain that turns out to be a reliable source of coal, returning to the hideout each night with his day’s worth of supplies. Slowly but surely he builds his fort up, even though he’s not quite sure he wants to stay here permanently yet, but it’s worth having a steady supply of food from the small wheat farm he’s started. He’ll need iron and other ores soon if he wants to craft better armor, but randomly striking into the mountain hasn’t yielded anything.

  It’s by chance that he finds the cave system.

  Jake’s running away from a creeper when it explodes, catching Jake in the center of the impact. He groans; he’d just been on a successful mining run and was carrying a good amount of coal. He respawns back in his base. Jake crafts a few more pickaxes and makes loaves of bread for the journey before he heads off again, determined to pick up his items before they despawn.

  Starting over in Minecraft is easy to Jake; he knows exactly what he needs to do and how to succeed. He tries to remember where exactly he met the creeper, trusting his gut and going east. Things look familiar—there’s that mountaintop that looks like a wolf’s head, there’s that lava flow careening down into a lake. The trees around it are slowly catching fire, and Jake takes care to avoid the inferno. He skirts around the lava, reassured when he sees a swath of floating treetops leftover from his search for lumber.

  Yesterday’s crater is easy to spot in the next morning’s light. The explosion’s exposed a mass of rock, and Jake spots the opening as he gathers his things.

  “Ooh, nice,” Jake says. He cracks his pickaxe into the small dark window, enlarging it by several blocks. Torches to mark his place and to light his way. Inside, Jake spots the beginnings of a promising cavern, with twists and turns and even water in the distance. He builds a chest and stashes most of the coal in case he doesn’t survive this particular adventure, then drops into the cave.

  Here in the dark, without the cycle of night and day, Jake loses track of time. At some point Dad tells him he’s going to a work thing, and Jake grunts out a reply, lost in the game. He finds veins of coal and a good source of iron, and puts up a good fight against the skeletons he encounters, even though he eventually loses. He respawns back at the hideout and takes the time to craft more weapons and torches and plenty of bread to help him heal after attacks, and travels back to the cavern. With a steady supply of iron a short journey away the hideout becomes a real base in just a few days, well-stocked with food and iron ore ready to be crafted into even better armor and weapons. Jake is fortifying a new perimeter wall when his stomach grumbles.

  He blinks, and the starkness of the physical world hits him. The bare white walls, the emptiness of the floors, the single box and backpack he’s dragged in here sitting forlornly in the corner. It’s dark now, everything cast in a strange, sinister shadow. The only colors are the rich greens of the fields and forests beyond and the bright reds and blues and yellows of flower fields bursting with vibrancy from his laptop screen.

  Staring at the computer, Jake supposes he should refuel his physical body before coming back to this. In the game, he makes sure he’s behind the perimeter wall at his base before he saves and quits so he’ll come back in a safe spot. He stretches. His reflection in the window stretches with him, a mousy brown-haired boy, pale and sickly-looking. Jake frowns and shakes his head, preferring the armored hero he sees when he plays. He pads to the window and yanks it open with some difficulty; someone had painted the window into the windowsill, almost fully sealing it shut.

  Night air blows inside, fresher and cooler than the stuffy heat that’s built up in his room. Jake takes in a deep breath. He kind of wishes they were on a higher floor for a better view, but it isn’t bad. He can see the skyscrapers huddling together—downtown, he guesses. Their lights sparkle, and a trail of red and white lights blink steadily in a flowing river of cars traveling to and from where they are.

  From up here the courtyard seems even more like an overgrown forest, hacked at to keep it in line. A play structure with swings lies in the center, and an empty concrete pool sits in the far west corner, filled with leaves and branches and trash. Jake shakes his head.

  The living room is filled with boxes labeled carefully with things like ELECTRONICS and JAKE SCHOOL SUPPLIES and OFFICE. There’s an older box with neat, printed handwriting with large rounded letters that reads BASEBALL. Jake traces the way Mom made her A’s, his fingers lingering on the box. He doesn’t open it.

  The apartment is a blank canvas, all gray modern furniture sitting in the hot, dry heat. His dad’s drafting desk is sitting unconstructed in pieces, leaning against the wall of the hallway to his office. Inside, the room is mostly set up, the plain desk already cluttered with blueprints and folders and a half-finished cup of coffee.

  Dad’s bedroom isn’t set up; his mattress is standing up against the wall, empty bedframe and an empty suitcase sitting next to it. Clothes and jackets are scattered across the floor, like Dad got dressed in a hurry. Must have been a last-minute business meeting or something. Jake always tells Dad to just pack his lucky suit separately so he won’t have to look for it, but he never remembers. Jake snorts to himself as he gathers the clothes and shoves them into an empty dresser.

  The hard gray couch is still wrapped in plastic, and on the dining table is a twenty-dollar bill and a note.

  For pizza. Will be back late. Have a great first night!

  Love,

  Dad

  Jake pockets the cash and opens the refrigerator, finding it empty. He sighs, wondering if it’s worth it to walk around and find a grocery store.

  Shouts and laughter echo from the kitchen window. Jake struggles to open this one as well, making a note to tell Dad that his painters haven’t been doing a good job. He manages to get it a few inches open, and fresh air starts to stream in.

  From this window he can see the park area more clearly, the early evening bustling with activity. Cars honk and people chatter and somewhere there’s a TV playing a telenovela. On t
he swings are two boys—eight or nine, he guesses. Babies, practically. Jake is fourteen and about to start high school, too old to be playing on a swing set, but something about it looks fun. Maybe he could see if there’s anything to do around the community center. He watches the two boys jump off the swings, grinning at each other and throwing up their arms in excitement. They run to the monkey bars, laughing as they goad each other on to climb higher and higher. Must be nice, having a best friend like that, someone who gets you and can make any time turn into a great time.

  “It’s Tank! Run!” The shrieks draw him back to the window, where Jake watches the two boys flee as a shadow approaches. A new boy, older than Jake, probably—he looks tough and mean. His dark hair is slicked back and he wears a thick denim jacket despite the heat. He shakes his head as the kids empty the playground, and then takes a seat on the swing, pushing himself slowly. “That’s right, run,” he says, scoffing as he squares his shoulders.

  Footsteps echo behind him, and a little girl with pigtails approaches. She has the same forehead and wide eyes as the boy, Tank. “Push me, Thanh-anh,” she says, and Jake watches the boy’s shoulders soften as he gives the girl a small, secret smile while she gets on the swing. He pushes her gently, laughing as she laughs and reaches for the sky.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TANK

  Tank sets the boxes down with a heavy clunk. He stretches and shakes out his arms, catching his breath. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and grins.

  “Is that all, Mr. Mishra?”

  Mr. Mishra counts out change for the customer, a tall woman in a business suit. She takes her packs of gum and looks up at Tank, her eyes widening with distrust as she takes a step back.

  Tank hunches down, trying to look as unintimidating as possible, but reflected in the glass of the milk-and-soda cooler, he sees what she sees: the way he towers over her, the way his reflection is so big his shoulders spill into the next door with the lunch meats.

  He thinks about the assembly that all the seventh graders had to go to, the one he’d slept through and then heard all the jokes about later, about bodies and how they changed. He knew, in a vague sense, that of course kids get taller and stuff, but no one told him it could happen all at once, that suddenly none of his clothes would fit, and his throat would hurt, and people would look at him differently. Like they were scared of him now.

  Shark says it’s a good thing, that people know he’s tough—it means no one is going to mess with him, which Tank appreciates. Shark is smart about things like that. Before he met Shark, Tank ate lunch alone and talked to no one, and now he has friends. Friends who look out for him, friends who he can hang out with.

  Tank had drifted through seventh and most of eighth grade just on his own, invisible, and then one day after spring break a lunch tray clattered down next to his and he’d looked up and saw Shark grinning at him.

  “You should hang out with us,” Shark said, even though he had never spoken to him before.

  “Yeah?” He’d been nervous all day, barely fitting into the T-shirt and jeans he took out of Ba’s closet because none of his own clothes fit him anymore.

  “You ever been to Fortress Park?”

  He had not. Kids from school hung out there all the time, whether it was buying the soda and pretzels and hot dogs from the Snack Shack or playing mini golf or racing one another on the go-karts. He had only seen the place on his way home from school, a long wall of fake stone and painted turrets rising over the strip malls by the freeway. It was the kind of place that would only be fun with friends, and no one had ever asked him to go. He’d figured he wasn’t missing much, probably just a bunch of cheesy games and kids from school he was too shy to talk to.

  But that day Shark invited him, and after school they’d gone to Fortress Park with AJ and Gus, and by the end of it the guys were clapping him on the shoulder and calling him Tank.

  And that had been that.

  Suddenly other kids recognized him in the hallways, made room for him to pass, gave him things like chips or soda from the vending machines or extra tickets for the Fortress Park games. People were always giving Shark things, and being Shark’s friend made Tank part of all of it. He has a name people can pronounce now, a name people say with respect.

  He can’t help it if people find him scary. It happens more and more every day, and Tank takes comfort in knowing that no one in this neighborhood is going to bother him or Viv because he’s tough-looking.

  But sometimes, it hurts when people assume he’s a bad guy.

  Tank shakes off the feeling; the woman is long gone, the sound of her heels disappearing in the distance.

  “Thank you, Thanh,” Mr. Mishra says. “You did great. I really appreciate it.”

  “Anything else I can do?”

  Mr. Mishra shakes his head. “Thank you for all the help. Sorry I don’t have more hours for you today.”

  “Can I come tomorrow?”

  “What about Thursday? That’s when the soda shipments come in, and my back’s not the same as it once was.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Mishra.”

  Mr. Mishra smiles at him, soft and kind. Tank bets he smiles at his own kids like that, even brighter. He’s a good dad, Tank thinks. Sometimes he sees the Mishra family in the little park in the complex, Mr. Mishra smiling with his wife, his daughters chasing each other in a game of tag. Tank kind of wishes sometimes that Viv was still that age; it was easier when she was easily entertained. Now she’s a little too lost in her own world, and it’s hard for her to make friends. The Mishra twins are too young for Viv to take any interest, but they’re some of the few kids who don’t run away at the sight of him now, and Tank appreciates that.

  “See you Thursday, Thanh.” Mr. Mishra counts out cash from the register and hands it to Tank.

  Tank shoves all of it into his pocket without looking at it. He nods at the man and leaves the convenience store, a little heavyhearted. Mr. Mishra offered to hire him for real, but that would require job permits and all of that legal stuff where you have to be sixteen and Tank doesn’t know how to explain that he’s only fourteen.

  The walk back to Pacific Crest Apartments is a short few blocks, and Tank’s grateful he doesn’t run into Shark or anyone he knows right now. He slips through the crack in the iron gate by the recycling bins, and pushes his way through a row of shrubberies before emerging in the courtyard.

  He brushes leaves off himself before cutting through the park to the looming gray tower of apartments, getting more and more nervous, the money seemingly growing heavier in his pocket. He passes by the brand-new apartment tower and shakes his head. What an ugly building. Most of the people in the original building ended up moving out during the renovation because it was such a hassle. Mr. Mishra had hated it the whole time because he and his family had to stay at a hotel for the three months while the construction company was working on that building.

  Tank doesn’t know if his family will stay either, when the time comes for their tower to be renovated. He guesses the company would make them the same offer as the Mishras, the discount on the hotel, but he doesn’t really want to move.

  He opens the door to the West Tower and ignores the clunky old elevator for the stairwell in the corner, taking the stairs two at a time until he gets to his floor. He slows his pace, approaching the apartment quietly so his footsteps don’t echo. Unlocking the door, slipping inside, and shutting it behind him without making any noise is just part of his routine.

  He counts the money and exhales. It’s not a lot, but it’ll help. Ma is in the bedroom, still asleep. She’ll wake up soon for her night shift, but for now she’s resting. Tank delicately walks over to the nightstand where her purse is sitting, being as quiet as possible. He pulls out her slim wallet, sliding half the cash inside before padding softly out of the bedroom. In the kitchen, he finds the envelope taped behind the second utens
il drawer and stashes all but one of the twenties in there for safekeeping. Maybe he can ask Ma if they can run the new air conditioning this week; it’s been almost unbearable.

  Tank collapses on the couch and closes his eyes. It’s not quiet—outside, he can still hear cars and footsteps and people talking, doors slamming shut as someone moves through the building.

  His own apartment door opens and closes in a familiar rhythm, joined by a clunk of keys and shoes being kicked off.

  “Hey, Thanh, did you just get back from work? Do you have any money for groceries?”

  Tank opens his eyes. Ba is looking at him but not quite looking at him. His father is more looking at the floor, a grease stain on his mechanic’s shirt and a resigned set to his shoulders.

  Tank sighs, thinking of the twenty in his pocket. He was hoping to save up this summer for brand-new sneakers—Shark says he could get the coolest ones for cheap, but even half of the mall price is too much for him. The gleaming white sneakers, Shark says, would make him undoubtedly cool, untouchable. Tank wants that, something for himself, something he’s worked toward.

  “We didn’t get any customers today so I left work early,” Ba says, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  Great. So instead of just sticking it out at the auto shop and maybe helping some actual paying customers, he came home to try to be “useful” instead, which Ma hates, because he usually ends up tinkering with something that didn’t need to be tinkered with, trying to save them money somehow. But it always backfires, and then Mrs. Jenkins crossly informs them they’ll need to pay extra for damaging the electric system and that it’s actually illegal to split your neighbor’s Wi-Fi cable.