All Against All

by Nathan Allen

  “... there was no confrontation, no altercation, nothing ...”

  “... a completely random attack ...”

  “... I’m not even sure they knew each other ...”

  “... can you imagine what sort of person would do a thing like that to a complete stranger ...”

  Alice could only stand by and watch as, little by little, the world around her collapsed into madness. She knew all too well what would motivate a person to do something like that.

  Within the hour, the envelope announcing Jordan Bradley’s elimination would be slipped under Alice’s front door, and under the doors of the twenty-one other contestants still remaining in the lottery.

  WELSH FACES DOPING BAN

  The Daily Ink

  30 September, 2066

  Champion swimmer Cassandra Welsh may be stripped of her Olympic medals and her world records overturned after being caught in possession of more than two hundred counterfeit Xylox pills.

  Welsh also faces a four-year suspension if found guilty of using the prohibited substance.

  Although counterfeit Xylox is not considered performance enhancing, it has been outlawed by the International Association of Athletics Federations due to its potential to interfere with drug tests.

  Welsh, 22, burst into the spotlight at the 2064 Cairo games where she took home a haul of three gold and two silver medals, as well as smashing the world records for the 100 meter butterfly and 200 meter breaststroke. She has since become one of the world’s most recognizable and highest-paid athletes, earning more than $400 million in prize money and endorsements in the past year.

  The revelation that one of the sport’s biggest names may be a drug cheat has sent shock waves through the swimming world, who have battled to clean up the sport’s tarnished image following years of scandals.

  Elixxia Pharmaceuticals, the makers of Xylox and a major sponsor of Welsh’s, moved to cut ties with the swimmer yesterday. They have expressed disappointment that she would consume a product that both acts as a masking agent and infringes on their intellectual property rights.

  [Subscribe now to view the full story]

  Chapter 15

  Tara Deangelis blew a ring of smoke into the air as she slumped her body against the wall of the local kebab shop. She glanced impatiently at her watch, then scanned her eyes through the crowd of human traffic. Still no sign of her boyfriend.

  Her hands twitched as she sucked another long drag from her cigarette. Where are you, she muttered under her breath. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since they last scored, and her jaundiced skin was teeming with an infestation of invisible bugs.

  A minute later, a tingling sensation burned a hole in the lower part of her chest.

  Tara winced at the unexpected discomfort. Her first instinct was to dismiss this as a bad case of indigestion. But she soon ruled that out when she remembered it had been several days since her last meal. Since becoming hooked on Xylox, food had fallen significantly lower on her list of priorities – along with just about everything else in her life.

  She placed her hand to her abdomen, just south of her ribcage, where this abnormal feeling originated. She swallowed and hoped it would pass.

  But it only grew worse. It felt like an alien was forming inside her.

  Then came the noise.

  BEEP ... BEEP ... BEEP ...

  A feeling of utter dread enveloped Tara. As soon as she heard the beeping, she knew exactly what was happening.

  The sour taste of fear filled Tara’s mouth.

  Moments later she collapsed to the ground, struck down by severe spasms of pain. She felt like she was being stabbed repeatedly in the chest with a hot butter knife. A scream of pure agony escaped from her mouth.

  She was incapacitated, curled up in the fetal position. But she knew she had to move.

  Time was her enemy.

  Fighting against the excruciating pain, she crawled on her hands and knees to the nearest trash can and tipped it over. She rummaged through the contents until she found an empty beer bottle. She smashed it against the ground.

  Her curious behavior soon attracted the attention of passing shoppers, drawn to the sight of this petite young woman, barely out of her teens, in the throes of what appeared to be a psychotic episode.

  Throughout it all, the noise continued at a steady rate.

  BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

  Tara lifted her shirt and braced for a spot of improvised surgery. She pressed the dagger of glass hard against her skin.

  A concerned onlooker, a kindly-looking man in his fifties, felt compelled to intervene.

  “Are you alright?” he asked tentatively.

  “Go away,” she groaned, waving the man off. “Get out of here. Now.”

  The man was unsure what he could do next. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.” He tried to come across as nonthreatening as possible.

  “Leave me alone!”

  The words left Tara’s mouth as a slur of moans.

  “We only want to help. We can call someone if you need us to.”

  He leaned down and placed a gentle hand on Tara’s shoulder. She lashed out and slapped it away.

  “Stay away from me!” she screamed.

  The man saw the broken bottle buried halfway into Tara’s torso. He saw the red light flashing beneath her skin, and the river of blood gushing from the wound.

  “Call an ambulance!” the man shouted. “She’s trying to cut herself open!”

  The crowd of onlookers let out a collective gasp at what they were witnessing. Horrified parents snatched up their children and removed them from the area as quickly as possible.

  The beeping increased in both volume and frequency.

  BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

  Tara bit down hard, then jammed her fingers into the incision in her chest. Her hands were already soaked red, the glass having sliced through a major artery. Blood trickled out of her like a cracked water pipe. A large puddle quickly formed around her.

  Tara struggled through the pain and wooziness as her fingers explored the inside of her body.

  But deep down, she knew she was fighting an unwinnable battle. Even if she knew what she was doing, there was no way she could extract the implant from her body in time.

  She heard the sound, and her time had come to an end.

  BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

  The implant, a small matchbox-sized lump of plastic and Semtex, flashed bright red, chirping out a high-pitched screech.

  Tara filled her lungs with air to scream her final words. But those words would forever remain unspoken.

  The explosive device detonated, and the crowd of stunned onlookers witnessed Tara’s body being blown apart in a shower of human flesh.

  Later that day, the thirteen members of the Consortium were informed that Tara Deangelis – aka contestant number four hundred and seventy-six – was the latest unlucky player in their Russian roulette competition.

  This was one of the Consortium’s minor contests, held every twenty-eight days. It involved a group of people volunteering to have small explosive devices surgically implanted inside their bodies. One of these devices was timed to go off at a random point sometime within the next four weeks. The individual members of the Consortium then placed bets on who they believed would be the next contestant to get blown to pieces.

  Despite the contest’s ghastly premise, there was never any shortage of willing participants. The contest currently boasted over nine hundred volunteers, each of whom were paid five thousand dollars per cycle. Most were desperate xombies who needed some fast money and never thought too far beyond their next hit. Others were just regular people who had fallen onto hard times.

  As soon as someone was blown up and a winner declared, the next contest commenced and each player received a further five thousand dollars. For many, it was an ongoing source of income.

  Since no one in the Consortium had selected four hundred and seventy-six for this round of the competition, th
e prize would jackpot.

  The current prize pool stood at $231 million.

  Chapter 16

  Alice,

  I have some incredible info regarding Goliath. Can’t say too much at this stage, but it’s BIG.

  Meet me out the front of the courthouse (near the steps) at 2:15 p.m. today.

  Stand by for further details.

  Needlemouse.

  Alice checked her watch. It had just ticked over to 2:25 p.m., and her source had yet to show. She made eye contact with every person walking by in the hope that they were Needlemouse – Alice still had no idea what he or she looked like – but all she got in return were blank looks.

  Nerves were creeping up on her. That sick feeling in her stomach had returned and was slowly working its way up towards her throat. The stress was causing her left eyelid to flicker like the wings of a hummingbird.

  She wondered what this big news could be. Goliath’s true identity? Alice didn’t want to get too far ahead of herself, but there had to be an outside chance that it could happen. Needlemouse had supplied her with some brilliantly salacious (and lucrative) stories in the few weeks they had been communicating. These included the family-values senator with a predilection for underage hookers, and the police sergeant caught tipping off a known drug supplier about an upcoming raid. But to actually identify Goliath would be nothing less than the scoop of the century.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time The Daily Ink had outed someone as Goliath. Speculating who Goliath might be was an ongoing obsession for the news service, with more than two dozen individuals accused over the past few years. Most were quick to issue firm denials to the contrary, although one in particular – Darcy Sixx, a flamboyant nightclub promoter with alleged links to organized crime – seemed to revel in the attention that came his way once he was labeled the city’s most notorious psychopath. He played up to the rumor, hinting to his creditors and business rivals that it might be true, and what would happen to anyone foolish enough to get on his wrong side.

  Unfortunately, the real Goliath didn’t appreciate having his good name and reputation besmirched by this imposter, and Mr. Sixx soon dropped off the face of the earth.

  Several weeks later, the tips of two fingers were discovered sticking out of a cement block that had recently been laid as the foundation for a new skyscraper. The builders cracked it open and recovered the body of Darcy Sixx. He had a deep sea diver’s mask covering his face, and an oxygen tank strapped to his back.

  An autopsy later revealed that he was still alive (albeit with internal bleeding and multiple broken bones) when he was tossed into the slab and the wet cement poured on top of him. It hardened before he was able to crawl out.

  Darcy Sixx finally died, frozen inside a slab of cement, when the oxygen in his tank ran out approximately eight hours later.

  From that moment on, anyone accused of being Goliath was quick to distance themselves from any such allegations.

  All of this played out in the back of Alice’s mind as she waited for Needlemouse to show. If she was to continue to write about Goliath, she would need to exercise great caution. Goliath usually left journalists alone if they stuck to writing the typical over-the-top sensationalized stuff that The Daily Ink excelled at. In fact he seemed to encourage this, as it did wonders to enhance his reputation. It was only when they ventured a little too close to the truth that the journalists had to watch their backs.

  Alice’s APhID then chimed with another message.

  Mission aborted. I think I was followed. Too dangerous to continue.

  Sorry, but I may have to lay low for a while.

  Needlemouse.

  Alice put her APhID away, and the dark clouds of disappointment quickly gathered above her. She had just watched what was potentially the biggest story of her lifetime slip away from her.

  She let out a heavy sigh, then slowly trudged back towards the bus stop with her head down. That’ll teach you to get your hopes up, she muttered under her breath.

  She had been walking for less than a minute when a familiar face appeared in the near-distance.

  Coming towards her, on the opposite side of the road, was a man she had seen at last month’s meeting. He was one of the lottery contestants. The double amputee in the wheelchair.

  His name was Christopher Gibson, and it was hard to miss him.

  They both spotted each other at the same time. Alice came to a sudden halt. Christopher did likewise. Their eyes met from opposite sides of the street. Neither one was sure what to do next.

  Without warning, Christopher spun his chair around and sped off in the other direction.

  “Wait!” Alice called out after him. “Christopher!”

  But he had already vanished around the corner.

  Alice broke out in a run. She crossed over the busy road, sidestepping the oncoming traffic, then made it to the other side.

  She raced down the street and around the corner.

  Christopher was nowhere to be found. She stepped up on a bench to try for a better look. Still nothing. He had vanished into thin air.

  The entrance to a shopping mall was up ahead. It was the only place Christopher could have disappeared into so quickly.

  She hurried down to the automatic doors.

  The center was a sprawling indoor metropolis, bustling with an ocean of people. Alice conducted a quick scan the place, then kept on moving.

  She increased her pace to a brisk walk, careful not to draw attention to herself. Still no sign of Christopher.

  He couldn’t be that difficult to find. An overweight guy in a wheelchair was sure to stick out in a place like this.

  A couple more minutes of fruitless searching went by, and she grudgingly accepted the fact that he was probably gone. Maybe he never came into the center in the first place, and she was wasting her time looking here. She decided she may as well give up now and go home.

  She rounded a corner as she headed for the nearest exit, and found Christopher parked in front of an elevator.

  An out of order sign was taped to the doors of the elevator. Christopher was trapped. Panic filled his eyes, like a cornered animal coming face-to-face with a hunter.

  He inhaled desperate gulps of oxygen from the respiratory mask pressed to his face.

  “Stay away from me!” he shouted, the mask muffling the fear in his words.

  His eyes darted left and right, searching for any bystanders who might come to his aid. A few shoppers glanced in his direction, but none looked like they were about to get involved just yet.

  Only now did it occur to Alice how this must have looked from Christopher’s perspective. He was a participant in a lottery that was proving to have an extraordinarily high mortality rate, and another participant had just pursued him through the streets. She couldn’t really blame him for jumping to the wrong conclusion.

  “I’m not going to do anything,” Alice said. She spoke in a calm, measured voice to let him know she posed no threat to him. The last thing she wanted was to cause a scene.

  “I mean it!” Christopher said.

  He scrambled to pull a small rectangular object from his pocket. Alice thought it might have been some sort of weapon, but then recognized it as a distress horn. It was just like the one she owned.

  “This thing shrieks at a hundred and twenty decibels!” he warned. “It’ll destroy your eardrums. Take one more step and I’m switching it on!”

  “I wasn’t following you Christopher, and I’m not going to hurt you,” Alice said. “I only want to talk.”

  They stood there for a while, facing one another in a Mexican stand-off. From Alice’s point of view, Christopher resembled a scared, defenseless child.

  Then his face softened. Alice could see that he had relaxed a little. She smiled at him, and he attempted to reciprocate the gesture.

  “Listen, do you want to go somewhere to talk about this?” she said.

  “I’m on edge all the time,” Christopher said, the trauma still aud
ible in his voice. “Every day, I’m looking over my shoulder and jumping at shadows. I’ve been getting these calls day and night. Someone keeps putting dead rats outside my house. Anytime I hear a strange noise, or if someone looks at me for too long in the street, I think this is it, my time is up. And then it doesn’t happen.”

  Alice and Christopher had found a café where they could talk in private. This in itself was an ordeal; they had tried three other cafés before this one, and all three had inadequate wheelchair accessibility. The aspiring investigative journalist in Alice saw this injustice as the basis for a potential feature story, until she reminded herself that The Daily Ink was unlikely to care about any issue that didn’t involve psychotic criminals or moderately famous people copulating with one another.

  “The worst part is the waiting,” he continued. He fidgeted with the skull ring around his little finger, the type sold in comic book stores for five dollars. “I know they’re coming to get me. I don’t know why they haven’t done it already. I assume they’re just toying with me, leaving me to suffer as I await my inevitable fate.”

  Christopher lifted his coffee to his lips. His trembling hands spilled most of it into the saucer.

  “I mean, let’s face it,” he said with a sad smile. “I’m not exactly a hard target, am I?”

  With his graying temples and permanent hangdog expression, Christopher looked every one of his forty-one years. But from certain angles Alice could see the frightened little boy inside, the one tormented every day of his life.

  “You really think that will happen?” she said. “That the contestants will all start killing one another to get to the money?”

  Christopher gave Alice a look that asked whether that was a serious question.

  “Do you even doubt it? Five are people dead – so far. In less than a month. With one hundred million dollars up for grabs. I’m surprised the whole thing isn’t over already.”

  There was a brief silence between them. Alice sipped her green tea.

  It tasted a little funny. It was slightly bitter, like the cup had not been rinsed properly when it was washed. She emptied another sachet of sugar into her drink and stirred.