by Cameron Jace
“Veeeerrrrrn, let’s tuuurrrrn!” Timmy wouldn’t miss out on such a rhyme.
The rest of us follow, one by one, seasons changing with every number.
Bellona is number nine. Vern is number one — again. Orin is number two.
Leo has immunity from this game’s level. He is the crowd’s favorite, so he doesn’t get a number.
I am last, and I know one number is left for me. I am number ten.
Is that good or bad?
If Leo had changed the numbers in my favor yesterday, who did that today? Or is it that I am destined to be number ten?
After this is over, we hear the sound of buzzing machines from our balconies. A bow gun appears, attached to every balcony. Mine is set high enough that I can easily pull the trigger from where I stand. Orin is the first to reach for his gun. He points his gun at me and pulls the trigger.
What?
Why does he want to kill me?
Nothing happens. I reach for my bow gun and try it. It can swivel over a rotating base so you can choose your target. The trigger is locked. That’s why Orin couldn’t shoot me.
Timmy is the only one who can unlock the trigger.
Woo taught me how to use bow guns. How is this possible? Did Woo spend his life teaching me how to win the game?
“Is that it?” Bellona protests. “Are we going to end up shooting each other in this game?”
“This is brutal. You can’t do this.” Even Pepper, with her death wish, doesn’t approve of such cruelty.
“Who are these people?” Vern looks up at the huge iScreens around us. “What have we done? Why are they so happy killing us? I just played computer games, for God’s sake.”
A box with a round red button on it rises mechanically from the metal balcony. It is covered with dust and spider webs. I clean it with my free hand.
“So what are the numbers for?” asks Leo.
“Cool down, Zambo,” says Timmy. “I will explain in a minute.”
“All set, boys and girls,” says Timmy. “Before we play today’s fantastic game, and for the first time in history, we are happy to announce your UCP, Up Close and Personal tickets.”
An orchestral piece of music is played with marching drums somewhere. This is not a death game. This is a carnival of silliness. This is a circus of the damned. Hallucinations from the other side. The dark side of the loon.
We hear the drone of approaching airplanes. They roar in the air above us.
It’s the Zeppelins.
A New kind of Zeppelins I have never seen before, with power engines and glass balconies you can actually open. They are flying a little too low and getting closer, right above and around us. Everywhere. The game is going to be watched, not just on live TV, not just in real-time, but up close and personal, as if we are monkeys in a zoo.
Four million national viewers are watching. One hundred thousand UCP tickets are sold instantly for tomorrow’s show. This means we won’t die today. Not all of us. I remind myself of Bellona’s words. They need us. We are the monkeys. We are the Monsters.
“Now that we’re ready, let’s play,” says Timmy.
“Catch the kiss or die, Thor,” Bellona mumbles.
“I want to show you something, Decca,” says Timmy in the microphone. Why is he addressing me? “I want you to stay very calm when I show you this, because the first part of the game is about you.”
Why about me? I try not to look surprised. What’s going on?
“I want you to look at this.” He pushes a button. There is a new video being broadcast on the iAm. It’s showing on the iScreens everywhere.
The broadcast shows a woman who wants to talk to me.
It’s my mom.
Chapter 20
Shoot Me Shoot Me Say that You’ll Shoot Me
My mom sits, talking into the camera. I can’t tell where she is, but it is a live feed.
“Hi, baby,” she says eagerly. She looks like she’s been crying.
“Hi, Mom. Are you all right?” I don’t need to count down from five to let the fear in and breathe it out. I have no fear. I am going to stay strong.
“I am,” she says. She is lying.
“How’s my brother, my—”
“Everyone will be okay.” She wipes tears from her eyes. “If you do as they say. If you play the game.”
Transmission is fading.
“Mom!” I want to jump out of the balcony, but I am buckled in from my waist up.
“We love you, baby,” she says lastly, hiding somewhere beyond the transmission’s waves.
Is that the last time I’ll hear from my mom? I turn to one of the flying cameras. “What do you want, Timmy?” I shout.
“Me not want anything, dear.” Timmy puts a hand over his heart. “The audience wants.”
“I am listening,” I say. “If I play the game, will you let my parents be?”
“Hey,” Timmy protests. “I am not the bad guy here. I am just a messenger.” The audience goes into an instant silence. What did Timmy just say? Did he call the audience bad? Was it a slip of the tongue? Those watching us all over the world think that we are the bad ones, the Bad Kidz, the irresponsible brats who will cause this nation to fall. They think they are good, but Timmy knows different. He knows that we are the good guys, and that they aren’t necessarily the bad guys. That they are brainwashed.
“What?” Timmy raises an eyebrow at the sudden silence. The iScreen shifts to Prophet Xitler, looking angry. “It’s good to be bad, isn’t it?” Timmy tries to force a chuckle. A few among the crowd breathe out in relief, but millions are still silent and angry with him. Timmy disappears from the screen.
He appears again within seconds, sitting on an oversized couch in a fun house, playing a video game, wearing a bandana that says, ‘It’s good to be bad when you’re dealing with the bad.’ He pushes buttons and kills zombies, vampires, and all kinds of real monsters in a huge TV screen. The audience starts to laugh. Then the monsters start to walk out of the screen at him, their faces changing into our faces. He keeps shooting, and we start to die, looking for brains. The audience laughs harder. Prophet Xitler laughs. The camera closes on him as he says, “It’s good to be bad.”
Timmy is forgiven. That’s what the crowd wants you to be: a clown. Although the incident has passed, I wonder how they will sleep at night.
“So back to you, Princess Decca,” says Timmy, sweating. “I promise you if you play the next game, I’ll let your mother go free.”
“No. That’s not enough,” I bite back. If I am going to risk my life for my family, I want the best for them. The best.
The audience makes a worrying sound, as if offended. I see them in the Zeppelins, faces plastered to the glass, with widened eyes, their breath sticking humidly to the inside of the windows, looking at me face to face.
They live up there in heaven. I live down here in hell.
“Do you think you’re in a position to bargain?” Timmy wonders.
“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 befo
re 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.
Welcome to the next game…
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 gr
in 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?
“I think it is an easy choice to make,” says Timmy. “Shoot number one. Vern.” Timmy stresses on the numbers again. ”Everyone’s voted for him to die first. He is a nerd and of no use to anyone. He complains and cries, and has survived the Breathing Dome by hiding like a coward in the booth without fighting next to any of you. That’s cheating. Besides, you don’t even know him. Just pull the trigger of your bow gun, Decca. Pull. Pull. Pull.”
“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.”
