Authors: Cameron Jace
“I am the bad one, remember? I am the Monster,” I grunt. “I can do whatever I like. If I play the game, you give my family immunity, as if I have never been born. They clear my name. I know it can be done.”
“It can be done, but it only applies to the ranked teens, not to Monsters. Besides, your dad was in the military. It doesn’t apply to you.” Timmy sighs impatiently.
“Then I won’t play. You can simply shoot me,” I say. “It’s obvious that this part of the game depends on me and my family’s tragedy. So here is the deal. You can have your show and spare my family, or eat your rotten eggs in poop sauce.”
Timmy is silent. He looks disgusted. “Poop sauce.” He clears his throat angrily. His lips twitch nervously. I think he will lose it again and start bzzz-bzzzing himself.
The audience is talking. Each viewer has different opinions, and is debating.
“Poop sauce?” Leo raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Don’t listen to him. You’re doing just fine,” says Pepper. “Timmy better eat poop sauce before we sauce the poop out of him.”
“Now that is disgusting,” I say.
Timmy doesn’t answer me back. For three minutes, he keeps staring at me in the iAm.
One thousand viewers have stopped watching.
“Go, girl,” says Bellona to me, showing me her fist.
“Okay,” says Timmy. “Your family is spared — only if you play this round till the end.” He relaxes back. “But believe me, I have a feeling this is way out of your league.”
“We’ll see.”
“Don’t do this, Decca.” I hear my mom cry out, but I can’t see her. They have blocked her transmission, so she must be in the crowd.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I scream aloud into the void, fighting the tears. I won’t show the audience one drop of vulnerability. “I can make it. I’ll see you soon.”
I shrug. If they clear my name, I won’t see my family again. It’s the law, even if I win the game and get ranked. But if it saves them, brings back the house they need, and provides a decent living for them, I’ll do it.
“Silence is golden,” Timmy muses. “So shall we begin?” Timmy claps his hands together and rubs them back and forth.
“You wanted to know what the numbers are for. So here it is. The numbers are based on the votes the audience has given you when you were crossing the main street to the Monorail, disconnected from the outside world. That was when you, Decca, stepped out of your fears before everyone and found the Monorail station. Since your little sacrificial lottery last night, the crowd decides we play your game — but the crowd’s way.” Timmy begins to explain.
“The audience has decided, on a scale from one to ten, who is most likely to die first and last. Leo has been spared, because the audience considers him a repentant, not an actual Monster. They want to see him in the games tomorrow. And he is so gawd-damn sexy. Aww,” Timmy screams and does a 360-degree round flip as if he were James Brown. “Ten is most likely to die last, the strongest link. The audience loves you too, Decca.” Timmy takes a deep breath, looking envious. “One is most likely to die first, the weakest link.”
“No,” Vern screams, trying to free himself from his balcony. He is number one. “Not me. Why always me?”
“What’s wrong with you people?” I yell at the screens. “You think we’re some kind of lab rats?”
“Tsk, tsk.” Timmy wiggles his index finger. “You don’t want to upset the audience. They’re beginning to love you.”
“So the numbers were predetermined?” I wonder. “Then what was the entire Wheel of Fortune thing for?”
“That was for overseas audiences.” Timmy munches on a Mango. “They didn’t get to vote, so we gave them something to munch on. Foreign politics, you know. Mango?” He stretches out his hand, offering me a bite.
“So what is the damn game?” I sigh.
“Look in the hole again, please.” Timmy means the circular hole in the middle of the ring.
Now that the fog and smoke are gone, I can see what awaits us down in the hole. There is a large elastic net like the one you see in a circus underneath the flying trapeze performers. The one that allows performers to fall safely into it if they miss a catch or fall off the bar.
This net is hung from the ring and looks like an inverted cone. Its base is so far below. Underneath it, there is a swimming pool full of crocodiles — or some genetically manipulated creatures that look like crocodiles.
The tip of the inverted cone, which acts like a base far below, has another hole in it, big enough for a person to fall through right into the pool of crocodiles. The pool is about only five feet below the base of the inverted cone, which is made of net fabric.
Those who design these games have some twisted imaginations.
“As you see,” says Timmy, “we are going to ask you to jump down there. The net can only handle a certain weight before it stretches down toward the pool. If the sum of your weight exceeds a certain limit, the net will stretch farther. If it does, you will fall into the pool and the crocodiles will eat you alive. Yum. Yum. Yum.”
“What’s the maximum weight the net can carry before it is pulled down enough for the crocodiles to yum-yum us?” asks Leo.
“The maximum weight the net can carry? That is the question,” Timmy speculates, acting as if thinking. “I thought ‘to be or not to be’ was the question, you know.” Timmy is torturing us. “But it turns out Shakespeare was wrong. ‘What is the maximum weight the net can carry?’ That’s the question.” Timmy stops again for effect. I have the feeling I am not going to like the answer. “I’d say ten of you,” says Timmy finally. “More than that, the net will definitely stretch down. That’s if none of you ate two bags of French fries and a double Burning Burger with extra mayo and ketchup yesterday.” Timmy bites down on a Burning Burger, the most famous hamburger I know of. It comes with live fire on top of it that fades out once you open your mouth. Hunger tickles my throat when I see this. I clear my throat, wishing for a bite.
Even when dying, a burger or a chocolate still counts. None of us has eaten since the games started – except for the candy bars we found in the pockets of the dead. Timmy throws the burger in the garbage without finishing it, then claps his hands clean. “So are you ready to die? Or to live? It’s all up to you.”
Our hearts are racing again. We’re looking at each other, looking for the one we’ll be forced to sacrifice so we save the rest. If the eleven of us land down on the net, all of us will die. We need to get rid of someone. That’s what the numbers are for. To remind us that the least favorite in the crowd is the one we should get rid of. The least favorite is Vern. Number one. Woo used to say that in the Amerikaz the number one was the number of the winner. No wonder they got apocalypsed. It’s a no-brainer that a Ten is a winner.
The bow gun in front of me is unlocked now. I hear the click as it swivels freely in a breeze. I am the only one with an unlocked gun. Everyone stares at me with Goosebumps on their arms – and under their pants, I guess. I wouldn’t want to go there
“The choice is yours, Decca,” says Timmy, licking a trail of ketchup off his lips. “You shoot one of your friends with the bow gun, the rest of you can freefall safely into the net, and your family is spared.” Timmy stops, thinking for a moment. “The audience thinks you’re the most likely to die last. That means they think you can save this game and maybe, just maybe, get ranked. Vern is the most likely to die first, so the choice is yours. You’ve seen the numbers the Wheel of Fortune has given you. I think everyone agrees that Vern is our next scapegoat.”
I can’t speak. The words are too heavy on my tongue. The weight of the world is stuffed in my throat.
“You have other options as well.” Timmy plays devil’s advocate. “If you don’t want to get rid of number one, then maybe number two.”
I am still speechless. I want to switch balconies. Maybe this is the right time to switch places with Leo. He is the one who is usually heartless and can do this.
“Here is another tip.” Timmy keeps pushing. “You can forget about the numbers and trust your instincts. For example, you may as well choose to shoot Bellona. She keeps hitting on Leo, you know,” Timmy teases. “If it were only you, Leo, and her on earth, she would not hesitate to kill you – of course, you could just let the dinosaur tiptoe on her and squash her, but that’s another thing.”
The viewership meter peaks: four million and seven hundred viewers, and ten times that number is watching me worldwide.
“Don’t believe him, Decca,” Bellona pleads. I flirt with the trigger. I am going crazy. Ever wanted to shoot another girl? Even better, ever had legal permission to shoot one?
Advertisements start showing on the screen. Even inside the battlefields, in front of the Zeppelins, large sponsored fliers orbit the area.
Timmy stands in front of the camera, hands folded, wearing the latest designer shirt and jeans, all branded with prices showing on the screen. He has a lollipop in his mouth and a grin on his face. Even the lollipop is branded. The message on the screen says: ‘You want to wear Zrada and be cool like Timmy?’
“This is a freak show,” Leo growls, trying to free himself from the balcony, but he can’t. You’re not Hercules, Leo. His face is red with the veins in his neck showing through.
“What if I don’t shoot anyone?” I dare Timmy.
Timmy lowers his head, acting disappointed. “Then the eleven of you will fall into the net. Believe me, if this happens, you will kill each other down there before the crocodiles get to you. Your family will not be spared, and who knows what will happen to them.”
Even though my parents wanted to kill me when I was seven, they are still my weak spot. I can die, but I can’t die causing my parents a living hell. My brother could be a Nine next year. My mother has always been there for her family – not particularly me. She sometimes loved me to death, and Dad’s priority was to get Mom off his back, even if that meant sacrificing me. Besides, who doesn’t have parents you want to kill from time to time? It’s all family business. Kill me today, kiss me tomorrow. It’s okay. I need to save my family, or who else is going to annoy me every day?
“Shoot him,” the audience yells at me from the Zeppelins. “Shoot him.”
Am I their favorite now? What about when it is my turn to die, will I still be their favorite?
I will be just like Vern, ordered by someone else to be shot dead.
I can’t. I can’t.
“Okay. Shoot Orin,” says Timmy, trying to make it easier for me. “He is absolutely unloved. He is number two. The crowd doesn’t love him, and he didn’t even try to save you at the Breathing Dome. In real life, he would be the bully in your school who just wants to hurt everyone else because he is big and brainless. He left you to die. If it was Orin’s turn, he would have shot you already.”
My mind is about to explode. I know I have told myself that everyone stands for themselves in this game, but I think I meant everyone taking responsibility to survive, not killing someone else. Why would I be a weapon to end their lives?
I am suddenly aware of how the game is changing me. I have certainly learned a lot in one day, but changing is different from learning. I want to grow. I want to be better. I don’t want to be brainwashed by the Summit. I want to be who I want to be, not who they force me to be. I want to be who I am.