I need to keep going and start with the ones still hiding. There are more than enough players still competing more for the prize rather than for merely survival. So they would be on the hunt. There’s no point in taking them out now. They’ll only make my job easier and eliminate some of the weak ones lurking in the shadows.
I’m approaching my first victim. The fear makes it that much easier, the air charged with electricity that makes my hands tingle as I reach for my sword.
There’s an old wooden medical supply box thrown in the corner of the room among other pieces of furniture, chairs, and beds that once served the patients here. But I can hear the faint heartbeat within. It takes one swing of my sword to break the wood apart, and then, end the life of the miserable bastard hiding inside. I don’t even care who it was. No one in this building is innocent. No one here deserves to live. I just watch the long trail of blood spill across the floor, then move on, keeping track of my own mental countdown. Floor by floor, room by room. Until there are only nine people left.
It’s been almost twenty minutes. Insignificant in a normal game, but right now I need to get this over with. Before I stop the fucking game and ruin everything.
I see one of the Valiants watching me from the shadows, a displeased look plastered all over his face like he’s the one orchestrating this, and I’m ruining his fun.
I don’t have time to deal with his shit right now. There will always be a next year if he lives to see it. And right now, his chances are severely diminishing.
I don’t give a fuck if James McAllister is a Senator or how much influence he has in DC. There are certain things he can’t cross. And I’m one of them.
I’m in a hurry, and that makes me careless. I have the feeling I’m missing someone, but at this point, I can barely stop myself from going back to check on Brynn. Some kind of uncontrolled madness takes hold of me, and by the time there are only seven people in the game, I’m not walking—I’m running across the fucking building, tearing everything apart, every corner, every space that could hide the person.
All the furniture on the first floor is scattered into pieces. Only four people left alive—three players and a Rat—when I hear 404. “Boss, we have some activity in the room.”
I don’t hesitate. I run upstairs as fast as I can.
The noise from my armor attracts one of the few contenders who wants another kill for himself, to ease his way to the grand prize. His biggest and final mistake.
I don’t wait for him to try. Just make an unpredictable turn and slash the sword throughout the darkness he’s hiding in. Worst decision of his life—hunting a hunter.
That makes only three left. But I don’t dwell on that. I just go straight up the stairs, a thousand scenarios running in my mind of what could happen if anyonefound Brynn. “404,” I roar in mytransmitter, feeling like the air is getting sucked out of my lungs. “What’s happening?”
“A guy entered the room a few moments ago, scoping out the place. Player forty.”
“Fucking shit,” I run faster, slamming doors and making as much noise as I can. Maybe the bastard next to Brynn will hear me and decide to come after me instead of wasting his time in empty rooms. I run past one of the Valiants on my way to the attic, the fucker staring at me like I’ve gone mad. Maybe I have, because the thought of not being able to protect her is unthinkable, unbearable.
My steps eat up the distance, the wooden floor thumping under my weight in a sinister rhythm. My mind, at war with my body, like I’m not getting there fast enough. Everything around me turns into a blur, like streetlights at night on the highway. And right when I’m just a few rooms away from Brynn, 404’s voice echoes in my ears. “Boss…”
For a moment, my world screeches to a halt, and I feel the darkness within spreading, my eyes going fully dark, my clothes beginning to feel too tight against my skin.
“Boss…” 404 repeats, and I realize I hadn't answered him.
“Fucking say it already.” I groan, preparing for the worst.
“Someone’s on his trail. Right in front of you. Another player is hunting the one in the room where Brynn’s hiding.”
My pulse is spiking, the power of holding myself back thin as a thread. But in one of the brief moments of lucidity, I manage to hold myself back, stop in my tracks, and let the game take its course.
I follow close, careful so the man in front of me won’t see me. I suspect he's too focused on his competitor because I made enough noise earlier to raise hell. At this point, I don’t want him to know about me. I’ll just let the game take its course, hopefully as quickly as possible.
The man—player thirty-three—carries a massive hammer with a sharp edge, like a pointed bolt at one end. Despite his impressive weapon, he’s careful enough so that his target won’t hear him as he slips into the room and sneaks up behind him.
He gets to take a few steps before the man who’s already in the room where Brynn is hidden—player forty—gets a hint of his presence and turns to face him. He instantly pulls out a knife and the two start fighting—or more like dancing around each other—they both try to stay at arm's length so their opponents weapons won’t reach them.
One of them won’t walk out of here alive, which means there will be only two players left in just a few moments. I need to find a way to get them together, because I can’t be the one who decides the winner between the two.
So for now, I remain at the door as a bystander, waiting for one of their moves to be the last.
Time doesn’t pass fast enough, and the bastards don’t die fast enough. The one with the hammer takes a swing but misses. Still, my money is on him to be the winner, but then, the one with the knife takes advantage and slashes at him.
He misses. The other man swings the hammer again, but player forty is fast enough to get out of the way, and with a quick spin, he kicks it out of his hand. It all happens in a split second, and as much as I want to see a good fight, I really need this to end.
Player thirty-three lunges at player forty, and they slam together, twisting across the floor as they battle for the weapon and control.
The fight goes on for almost a minute until one of them knocks the knife out of the other’s hand, the weapon skimming across the floor away from them. Now the real fight begins, where men show what they’re really made of. Punches and kicks fly, each one clinging to the last chance of survival, until player thirty-three shifts his weight, ending up on top of player forty with his hands, wrapped around his throat.
